Phenomenon
by MarieEri
Summary: The man who devotes his life to solving mysteries proves to be the greatest enigma of all.
1. Chapter 1

**Phenomenon**

**A/N**- This disclaimer goes for this and all subsequent chapters. This is not a work for any personal financial gain. I'm just having fun with the Doyle's characters in Moffat's re-envisioned world.

I began plotting/writing this after _A Scandal in Belgravia _came out because it brought up so many delicious questions and hints about our favorite consulting detective. To the best of my ability, this story will adhere to canon up through that episode.

Oh, and it should be said that my familiarity of British culture is that which I have absorbed from Austen and Dickens novels, the occasional BBC miniseries and Top Gear. Forgive me where the errors may lie, but I will do my best to correct any mistakes if pointed out to me.

Rating subject to change.

* * *

><p><em>His brow is covered by a layer of sweat. He quickly wipes it away.<em>

_"Hun…I'm…I'm heading out for a walk."_

_From somewhere inside the small house, he hears the feminine reply over the blare of a show. "Roger, don't bother. Telly says a storm is coming."_

_He blinks, swaggers on his feet a bit. Has to reach out and use the wall as support._

_"I just…need some fresh air," he calls back._

_A moment later—_

_"Take the dog then."_

_The man swallows and with shaky hands, grabs the leash from the hook on the wall. A giant wolfhound trots over on cue and nuzzles her master's hand. Large brown eyes watch every tremor. The dog whines._

_"That's a good girl," the man whispers, clipping the leash on. "Out we go."_

_The telly's put on mute. A young woman hurries into the kitchen and grabs an umbrella. She hobbles back to the entryway. Her large belly slows her down. Expecting their first in a few short weeks._

_She opens the door and looks out. "Roger! Roger, wait! You forgot your umbrella!"_

_He's too far away now. She sighs and puts the umbrella by the door, then goes back to the sofa to wait._

* * *

><p>Thunder rolls softly in the distance, signaling that the rest of the day will be as dreary, cold and wet as the night has been. Several dozen miserable-looking law enforcement personnel pace about a taped off crime scene. They wear standard black coats with neon vests. One stands out among them. He's a slight built man with dirty blonde hair plastered to his forehead from the drizzle. His soaked tweet jacket screams academic, but his stance is rigid. The other officers shoot fiery glares in his direction. Self-consciously, he squats down and stares for a long moment at the body.<p>

"That's a bloody awful way to go," he says, to no one in particular.

Dr. John Watson closes his eyes and stands, eager to get away from the morbid scene. Details swirl like tempest. Things that, a year ago, would have floated by him like air. Now he sees the battlefield. Parts of it, anyway. Sherlock would probably disagree. _But he isn't here right now,_ the doctor recalls sourly.

He snuggles deeper into his jacket as the rain begins to fall more heavily. Observations surface in his mind.

_Concrete, surface cracked. Painted burgundy now. The clouds are reflected in the blood. That's sick. Not the way the Lord intended it. The body is of a young male, late 20s probably? He propped up against the brick wall like he's taking a nap. What is this place?_ John looks over his shoulder. _Oh yes. Right— old car factory. Reliant Robins were made here. Nasty little trike things. And Lestrade said something about a dog. _The doctor looks around. _Oh, there it is._

Another officer is holding its leash, though obviously unwillingly. Animal control hasn't arrived yet. John caught a few bits of earlier conversations. Some investigators blame the dog. He can understand why. The animal looks like a hound from hell. Its once silver coat is marbled with black oily mud and blood. _So would appear any loyal creature lying close to its master in this place,_ John reasons.

He walks over and reaches out a hand. The wolfhound sniffs it, and then offers a warm lick across his fingers. The doctor smiles and gives the animal a quick pat on the head. _Not a mean bone in this one's body, _he thinks. _Poor thing._

He turns away and ducks under the yellow tape roping off the area. Detective Inspector Lestrade is sitting in the car, warm and dry. He opens the door and John slides in.

"Coffee?" Lestrade asks, leaning over the seat with a cup. John smiles wearily and takes it. The warmth seeps through the economy Styrofoam into his numb fingers, and he releases an involuntary sigh.

"Would have offered a pint if I could," the detective inspector continues, reading his expression. The corner of the doctor's mouth rises in acknowledgment, and he takes a sip.

"Next time, then."

Both men want to say 'there shouldn't be a next time.' Both know that's a lie, so they sit quiet another minute and sip coffee in silence.

John speaks first. "He hasn't arrived yet?"

Lestrade shakes his head. "Pity, really. Especially with a case like this. Could have used the insight."

He frowns, and for a moment, looks much older than he really is. He stares out the window of the car.

"I don't have much to go on right now. Poor chap. What a mess. Passing jogger found him. Now I have to talk to his pregnant wife and I don't have a damn thing to say to make it any better."

"Mmmm." John takes another sip. He pulls out his phone again. No texts, no missed calls.

"I…uh…I'll tell Sherlock what I saw," he offers. "I'm sure someone will get to the bottom of this."

Lestrade nods. "Yeah. Well, thanks for coming out anyway."

John exits the warm police car and steps out into the rain. He hails a taxi.

"Wer' to?" the driver asks.

"Baker Street," John replies automatically. "221B Baker Street."

* * *

><p>"Sherlock!"<p>

_Silence. _

John stomps up the stairs tired, wet and in no mood for his flatmate's mercurial antics. _I swear_, he thinks, _if I find his naked arse standing around in a bed sheet I'm going straight for my gun—_

"SHERLOCK!"

"Good morning, John."

The doctor skids to a halt and glares at the fully dressed, ridiculously alert looking Sherlock Holmes. They couldn't look more different at the moment. His flatmate's dressed impeccably in a black collared shirt and slacks, his dark curly hair awry and somehow just right, and he sits with just enough smugness it makes John want to deck him. Twice.

Sherlock glances over the screen of the laptop at his scowling friend. He receives a loathing glower as the doctor dumps his wet coat on the other chair and collapses on the sofa.

"Where were you?"

"That should be obvious." His tone is disinterested at best.

John purses his lips and tries again.

"_Why_ weren't you at the crime scene? I know Lestrade contacted you."

Sherlock pulls out his phone and flips through the screens.

"Ah, he did."

The doctor's eyebrow rises. "…You didn't check?"

Sherlock places the phone on the table and looks back at the laptop screen, effectively shutting the other man out. John sits a few minutes in the thick silence before concluding that his effort is futile. Raw anger and frustration bubble to the surface once more.

"So that's how it's going to be? I leave a warm bed and good company to freeze outside investigating a case that you knew about and blew off."

Sherlock doesn't reply. The blue eyes twitch back and forth as he reads through text at impossible speeds.

_I might as well be conversing with the bloody skull. _"Fine. Just fine," John says. He stands up. "I'm going to freshen up now. Feel free to put some water on for tea."

Just as he turns away—

"Routine homicide. Hardly worth my time."

John spins around. "When is a homicide _routine_? A man is dead, Sherlock!"

Sherlock is still looking at the screen. The doctor stares at him with an open mouth.

"The poor man was…oh, never mind. I'm just wasting my breath."

Sherlock closes the laptop and rests his chin on the tips of his fingers, which are pressed together as though in prayer.

"He was what?" he responds placidly. His eyes are trained on the hideous brocade-patterned wall before him.

"Stabbed, Sherlock. Leaves behind a distraught pregnant wife. And dog for that matter."

If the revelation has any impact on the consulting detective, his face doesn't show it. Not even a twitch of the fingers. John swears under his breath and exits the room. He wasn't expecting a reaction just then. But he never stops hoping for one.

Sherlock's studious gaze flicks over his flatmate's retreating form, taking in the soaking clothes and general raggedness. "It must have been a shoddy mattress."

The doctor stops and shakes his head. "What?" he says, looking back over his shoulder.

"What's-her-name's mattress. Poor quality, at least in comparison to that which you're accustomed."

"It was…fine. How would you know?" John snaps. It's a reflexive comment, born out of an innate defense mechanism and lack of sleep. As soon as the words leave his mouth, he regrets them.

Sherlock's eyes glitter. He loves this game. And make no mistake, it is a game. John is the current piece in play.

"Purple circles under your eyes. Bruising worse than normal, despite a tendency toward late nights. Not much sleep then. Shoulders hunched forward, flexed occasionally, often with a grimace. Sore in the T2, no T3 region. Result of nocturnal recreational acrobatics? Improbable, given the current mood. Bad bedspring more likely. Clothes are wet, but lacking the wrinkles indicative of a night spent on the sofa. You've changed. Wouldn't have changed for a night on the sofa. Under eye circles. Sore back. Foul mood. Fresh clothing. Ergo _cheap mattress_."

John can do nothing but glare at him. Damn that man and his observations.

"You could've just said sex," he says at last.

An eyebrow rises.

John shakes his head. "Nocturnal recreational acrobatics? …Seriously?"

The fierce blue gaze narrows on him. "Bad. Shagging." Sherlock practically spits the words out. Even then he makes them sound elegant. John almost hates him for it, but doesn't care enough to ponder the thought. He's sore, wet and dirty, and has no more patience for Sherlock's games. The shower beckons_._

John pauses at the doorway. He looks back over his shoulder.

"The mattress was fine. She kicks in her sleep." _Ha. Take that, you bloody know-it-all._ He continues up the stairs without giving Sherlock a chance to retort. It's a juvenile moment of elation, but when John steps into his lonely room, the feeling of victory fades.

As he stands in the cascade of warm water, all he can think about are clouds floating in pools of blood.

* * *

><p>"I wanted to apologize."<p>

Sherlock puts down the graduated cylinder and looks up.

"I was quite cross earlier today," John continues, "and I could've handled it better. I'm sorry."

Something passes across the pale, aquiline features that John can't identify. Sherlock looks back down again at his present experiment. The moment is lost.

"Very well. Hand me the Tetramethylammonium Hydroxide."

"The what?" The doctor looks down at a coffee mug sitting on the table with a clear fluid in it. "Oh, please say this isn't it."

Sherlock extends his hand.

John frowns and hands the mug over. "TMAH is a very toxic base, Sherlock. Should be used under a hood. In a real laboratory for that matter."

He takes another look around the ramshackle kitchen that some months back had been converted into a chemistry workstation. It was covered in beakers, unknown fluids, Bunsen burners, and a few other contraptions that for the life of him, John can't remember their purpose. Chemistry was never his thing at the Uni. _Cooped up alone with a bubbling something or other waiting for a result…no thanks. _But Sherlock thrives on it. _Probably literally_, John thinks with a grimace, eyeing some suspicious white powder on the table.

Unsurprising, his lecturing gets no response. John goes to the fridge and opens it. It's annoyingly bare, but at least there's no decapitated head staring back at him.

"Had anything to eat?" he asks. As if he doesn't know the answer to that. His flatmate doesn't set much time aside for normal human necessities. Interferes with his thought process, or so he says. _More likely to maintain those damnable cheekbones. Vanity, Sherlock_.

John's stomach is rumbling terribly now, despite the revolting smell wafting through the kitchen and beyond from Sherlock's unknown experiment.

His pocket vibrates. John reaches in and pulls out his phone. A text from D.I. Lestrade.

"Roger Shackley's body is at the morgue," the doctor announces. "Lestrade wants us to have another look."

"Roger who?"

"Roger Shackley. The victim from this morning's homicide in South Bank."

"Mmmm."

"So will you come?"

Sherlock's gaze remains locked on the liquid in the test tube before him. "No need."

"But—"

The detective looks up and shoves the chemistry goggles up onto his mess of dark hair.

"You're going," he states, irritation seeping through the low tones of his voice.

John tries another tactic. "I think today is Molly's day off. Dr. Lovey's terrified of you, so it'll be just you and the body. No one else's _thoughts_ to distract."

John's lying. Partially, at least. It's true enough the Sherlock requires a place to think sans most people in a ten meter radius, and he's usually obnoxious about stating the fact. (Corpses he has a special allowance for). It's also true that Dr. Lovey, one of two medical examiners on staff at St. Bartholomew's, is deathly frightened of the consulting detective. The man refuses to leave his office when Sherlock arrives (John suspects it has something to do with Sherlock beating the man's late college with a riding crop, but he can't be sure).

Sherlock's interactions with Dr. Molly Hooper, however, are an entirely different matter. It's not her day off at all, but John doesn't expect Sherlock to know that. The detective pays minimal attention to the ridiculously smitten woman. _Poor girl_, John thinks. _She certainly knows how to pick 'em. Clamoring after the unobtainable sociopath, then onto the criminal mastermind when that doesn't work out. Some people really aren't lucky in love._

Sherlock interrupts his thoughts. "It's _not_ Miss Hooper's day off, therefore all the more reason for me to stay here. Give Lestrade my regards."

_Could he be avoiding her? Now why would—oh, never mind. _John picks up his coat off the chair. It's still damp, but it will have to do.

"Alright, suit yourself."

No response.

He nearly plows into Mrs. Hudson at the door as she comes in holding a paper bag loaded with groceries. While the landlady is nearer to seventy than sixty, today she looks no worse for wear, sporting a smart looking red blouse and skirt. Her dyed brunette hair is freshly curled. _Must have been at the parlor earlier today_, he reasons. John compliments her on it.

"Oh John, you are too much!" Her pleasant expression evaporates as she steps inside. She wrinkles her nose. "Goodness, what is that awful smell? What've you boys been up to?"

John takes the bag for her and they both walk a few feet to her flat's door.

"You know Sherlock," he says. "Bored or causing trouble."

As if on cue, the echo of a screeching arpeggio fills the walls as the detective upstairs bows mercilessly on the violin strings.

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head and pushes the door open for the doctor. "Oh, that Sherlock." Her compassion and tolerance for Sherlock knew no bounds. After all, the man put more than a few bullet holes in her wall.

John sets the bag down on the small kitchen table.

"Thank you, dear," she says, moving quickly around the small kitchen. It's covered in faded white floral wallpaper, but sections have curled up at the edges revealing the same shade as their upstairs flat—a hideous aquamarine that could burn the corneas on a bright day. John will never tell her so, however. Perhaps there was some logic in Sherlock covering their kitchen up with his chemistry rubbish.

"Now where are you headed off to?"

"Oh, you know, the usual investigative business."

The landlady accepts his ambiguity out of experience.

"Very well. Take care of yourself, John Watson."

"Yes, always do." He heads to the door. "Oh, and Mrs. Hudson? It would be best if you step out again yourself. Or at least crack a window." He motions a finger to upstairs, and she nods.

"Oh, I was planning on it, dear. Sherlock may be brilliant, but his calling was never the symphony."

As he steps out, John genuinely smiles for the first time that day.

* * *

><p>His smile has faded by the time he walks into the morgue. It's not due to the sterile white walls, harsh fluorescent lighting overhead or even the oppressive openness, interrupted only by stainless steel exam tables. It's not from the bodies in the cold storage or out awaiting autopsy, many of which ended up in St. Bartholomew's before their time. It's the mood. It's a place of utter stillness. Of sorrow and regret and heartbreak.<p>

For Sherlock, it's a treasure chest of possibility, logic and mystery. Sometimes, John envies that perception.

"Good evening, Molly."

The young medical examiner turns around and flashes John a weak grin. He catches her not-so-subtle stretching to look over his shoulder.

"Uh, no, Sherlock's not with. Not this time."

"I see." Her face falls, but she's quick to cover it up. "You're here to look at the one that just came in?" She has a songbird-like voice, innocent and hopeful. And only the dead to talk with.

John clears his throat. "Yeah. Lestrade wants me to take a closer look. Not sure why—I already saw the body this morning."

She leads them over to one of the exam tables. Quickly checks the tag and looks back up at John.

"Um, here he is." She unzips the black body bag.

John picked up the clipboard on the table. "Wait a minute. This doesn't say the official cause of death is desanguination. Roger was stabbed, wasn't he?"

Molly looks down at her feet. "He was, just not only where they thought."

John pulls on some exam gloves and opens the bag further. Molly points to the pink wound on the victim's side. "It's fairly minor compared to most I see in here."

"Not enough to kill a man," he concurs.

She nods, and her long chestnut ponytail bobs. "No, I don't think so."

"You wrote peritonitis brought about by a perforated bowel."

"Yes."

"Perforated bowel—" John says. Creases appear in his forehead. "How could that be?"

Molly bites her lip. "There's no other DNA specimen obtained, so I'm not sure what else I can tell you."

He snaps off the gloves and leans against the table. Molly stands a few feet away, paying close attention to the tiled floor.

"Hang on. An infection like this must have taken at least 24 hours before resulting in death. Roger was found dead this morning. Body couldn't have been there more than an hour or two before I saw it. But the stab wound on his side…that's _not_ a day old."

"I can have Dr. Lovey take a look in the morning if you want my findings reviewed."

John shakes his head and gives her a flash of a grin. "No, nothing like that. I'm sorry. I don't mean to throw suspicion on your report. It's just…this case isn't quite so routine anymore, is it?"

She looks baffled. "Routine?"

"Uh, never mind." He glances at his wristwatch. "Damn, I best be off."

"What?—where are you going?"

"Uh, I have some ideas I better follow up on. Thank you for your help, Molly." In actuality, he has an apology-date with Sandra on the other side of town and is already running late.

John leaves the morgue a man on a mission, leaving the poor medical examiner standing with her mouth open. When he's out of sight, she turns back to the corpse and zips up the bag.

"I don't understand them," she says to the silence, and with a soft 'humph' noise, kicks the table locks up and wheels Mr. Shackley back into cold storage.


	2. Chapter 2

**3 days later—**

It's been a busy day. Three bodies: one elderly, one of a child, and another of a homeless woman. Molly performs her work with her customary unsung adeptness. Unconsciously, she keeps an eye on the double doors. Always hoping that maybe_, just maybe_, _he_ will walk through. Even so, she knows Sherlock will be awful—demand coffee or the coat off her back, (which to her shame, she would give)—but just to be in the presence of him…she almost sighs. It is like air. Or gravity. An unrelenting law she has to abide by. _Wants to abide by_. He's bridled chaos in the midst of her life's unremitting monotony.

_Oh, focus Molly_, she berates herself. She is seating before the computer in her small, bare office, typing the last of the autopsy reports. Well, sort of typing. She has always been more of the single index finger-one-key-at-a-time kind of girl, much to her mum's disappointment. '_Secretary ten years before you were in the womb and I still could 'na pass a darn skill onto you, girl.' _Molly involuntarily flinches at the memory.

She clicks save on the document and prints it out. Glances at the clock. Almost 6 pm. Dr. Lovey will be in at any moment.

The medical examiner hangs up her white lab coat and exchanges it for a shabby wool one, not unlike Sherlock's favored vestment, although hers is a faded camel color and has holes in the pockets and under the left armpit. She keeps her arms pressed tightly to her side so no one notices.

She winds a long brown scarf around her neck a few times and heads out the door. She doesn't own a car. Can't afford one, what with the taxes and fees these days, so she walks. Her flat isn't terribly far away—2 miles—so it's not too bad when the weather holds out.

The wind cuts through her cheap polyester slacks and she shivers. Molly digs in her hands in her pockets for warmth and lowers her head. One foot in front of the other. She doesn't think about work at all once she leaves those doors. The blood, the trauma, stiff limbs and crying family members. All behind her. The dead will wait. They always do.

Someone bumps hard into her shoulder, nearly causing her to fall. She throws the passing man a fleeting cross glare before continuing on her way. Molly likes to think that she fades into the crowd. The invisible woman. No one pays her a bit a notice as she moves along. Why would they? There's nothing remarkable about her features, as she is constantly reminded by Sherlock. She knows she possesses unremarkable straight brown hair, plain brown eyes a bit too large, lips too thin and a body that never quite seems to have lost its adolescent slenderness. Her dad used to tell her she was pretty. He was the only one. But she knows she has nothing that would keep a man. Sure, a few boys got past her painful shyness in when she was at the uni, and even in med school, but they never stayed long. She was too…_Molly Hooper_. A drink or two, a quickie on the couch and her remaining nights were spent at the kitchen table waiting for that call that would never come.

Her last fling, Jim from IT, was an exception. Small, wiry and with eyes darting everywhere and yet completely focused—he reminded her of a caged lion she saw at the zoo as a little girl. Back and forth, to and fro, no destination but always walking, watching, waiting. Jim wasn't so bad, at first at least. He even paid for a few meals out. But it was over even before Sherlock interjected his opinion. _Jim was a bit odd._ Lying in the sheets, unsatisfied but never willing to tell her partner, she remembers Jim playing with her hair and asking about Sherlock, of all people. She answered what she knew, all the while knowing that something was off. Jim's hand tightened in her hair—painfully so—when she said anything flattering about the consulting detective. So she lied, said he was a hateful, stupid man, and fled to the bathroom. Her scalp was bleeding.

That was some months ago.

Molly tries to push the depressing thoughts away as she pulls her keys out of her purse and climbs the rickety three flights up to her flat. It was her father's flat before he passed on. He left it to her.

She steps inside and pretends it still smells like him. Tobacco. Thick and masculine. She doesn't smoke. But for him, she doesn't mind the odor.

Molly dumps her purse on the little round table before she hangs up her coat. She doesn't like watching the telly much but turns it on anyway, just to have the noise. Puts on the kettle and heads for the shower. When she's done, she finishes making herself a cup of Earl Grey and settles into the sofa, clad in an old sweater and sweats. Actually, the forest green sofa nearly swallows her as she sits down, its padding is so wasted in the center. But that is where he dad used to sit, and she can't bring herself to get rid of the sofa just yet.

BBC News hums in the back of her subconscious. Something about bank problems and gang violence and detectives…

She closes her eyes. The pale light of streetlamps shines through the window, but here is where she normally sleeps. The bedroom is just too quiet.

Limbs untighten, stress dissipates, and for the next few hours, she'll forget how lonely she really is.

* * *

><p>"Gang attack?"<p>

"Yeah, that's what Anderson thinks. Not uncommon these days. Lone guy walking the dog in the wee hours of the morning. Makes a decent target for a group or someone armed."

"Roger Shackley's wallet was still on him, correct?"

"Maybe he fought back. The attacker got scared. I don't know."

John Watson frowns. "There's no other bruising on the body, even the knuckles aren't scraped."

"But he _was_ assaulted."

"Yes, he was," John concedes.

Lestrade shrugs helplessly. "Look, I had my people comb the area. There are no witnesses. No video. Nothing. It's what we call a 'dead area.' Really bad luck."

"Or clever planning."

The detective inspector leans back in his desk chair and sighs. "Sherlock's unavailable, you said?"

"Uh, yeah, he's just a bit preoccupied at the moment."

"Meaning it bores him."

_How observant. He doesn't give you enough credit, Lestrade._ "Just give him some time," John says, hoping his own frustration doesn't infuse his voice too much. "Between you and me, Sherlock just went through a bit of a rough patch. An uh_, acquaintance_, passed recently."

"Oh, well I'm sorry to hear it." To his credit, the inspector genuinely looks distressed by the news. He tabs his fingers rhythmically on the desk before folding his hands together. "I know sometimes I take advantage of you two being so willing to help out, and all that. You have lives, too. Look, I appreciate your time, John. And Sherlock's too, when he gives it. We'll see what we can make of this mess. I'll not give up."

"I know you won't."

Lestrade's office phone rings and John takes that as his dismissal.

As he leaves the Met, he looks down at his own phone. Seven missed calls. He flips through the log. All Sandra. _Bloody hell._

The date a couple nights back went well enough, he thought. He made a lucky guess by choosing Italian cuisine, (her favorite, apparently), and even got invited for a glass of wine at her flat. The night ended there, (much to his relief, as his shins were still a bit bruised), so he returned to Baker Street to find Sherlock in much the same position as he left him—seated at the kitchen table tinkering with chemicals. The ceiling had a fresh blackened area just above the kitchen table. Mrs. Hudson nearly had a coronary.

John punches her number. Sandra answers on the first ring. He swallows and raises a hand to hail a cab.

"_John?"_

"Hello, love."

"_What the hell is this place?"_

"Uh, what?"

"_Your flat! I came to bring you a treat and your flatmate, he—"_

John holds the phone away from his ear as he gives the cabby a few terse directions. He can still hear her screeching through the receiver. _Oh, Sherlock, what have you done now_, he thinks, and wincing, puts the phone back up to his ear. Her tirade never ceases.

"—_there were body parts on the table! Body parts like in a bloody horror film! You live with a complete psychopath! I called the police."_

"You…you called the police on Sherlock."

"_OF COURSE I BLOODY DID! Have you listened to anything I've been saying?"_

"Yes, Sandra, just calm down a minute. Where are you now?"

"_Locked in the bloody bathroom! He'll kill me, I know he will! The police should have been here by now…"_

Her screaming has turned into full-fledged sobbing hysterics, and John sighs.

"I'm on my way, Sandra. You stay where you are."

"_No! You stay away from me! I don't want to see you ever again! You're some crazy doctor making a Frankenstein monster or some such thing. I'm not coming out—"_

"Ok, that's fine. There's a magazine in the cupboard." He hangs up. Swears at Sherlock under his breath and punches in Lestrade's number.

"Yes, hello again. I need a favor."

* * *

><p>"It's hardly edible, anyway."<p>

John is seated in the chair, his head in his hands. "What are you talking about?"

Sherlock pokes at the loaf of wrapped sweet bread on the table with his violin bow. The bread's still sitting untouched next to a bag of human cadaver toes.

"Burned along the bottom and sides, probably her first attempt at baking. Smells questionable—"

"It was a nice gesture, Sherlock. Not that it matters anymore."

His flatmate's brow creases. "Why ever not? Lestrade got her out in one piece."

"Yes. Yes, he did, didn't he? The police had to come to fetch my girlfriend from _my own bloody flat_!"

"You're upset?"

John looks up at him incredulously. "Of course I'm bloody upset! I liked her, Sherlock!"

"Despite the kicking?"

"Yes, despite the kicking!" He stands and goes for his coat. "It's bloody well over with now. She thinks we're murdering psychopaths."

He shrugs on the coat. "Put the toes away. Anyway, you heard Lestrade. Licenses are needed for keeping that sort of thing."

"I don't _need _a license."

"You're not above the law, Sherlock. Neither of us is. Lestrade has cast a blind eye toward a lot of things. That won't last forever."

"He needs me."

John glares at Sherlock. "And that changes everything, doesn't it?"

"It does."

"Well…good for you."

Before he says anything else he'll regret, the doctor turns on his heel and exits the flat. As he steps outside 221B Baker Street, he takes a deep breath of the night air. _Ah, a London night. Nothing quite like it_. Just then, a passing bike messenger nearly clips him, and John has to leap back against the brick wall to avoid being flattened. He regains his breath after a moment and laughs to himself. _What was he thinking of again? Ah yes—there's no place like London._

The café next door is still open, speaking volumes of its quality cuisine, but a cheap coffee and roll may do the trick to relieve John's pounding head and empty stomach. Anyway, as much as he hates to admit it, Sherlock was right. Sandra's baking looked less than appealing, especially after sitting next to cadaver parts all evening long. Not that he'll have the chance to suffer her baking again, he remembers sourly.

Forty-five minutes and a crap telly show later, he steps out of the café, coffee in hand. It's begun to drizzle, but he doesn't really mind. Just stands for a minute under the café awning, sipping the hot drink.

"John Watson?"

He turns, seeing a stunning brunette smile at him from under a black umbrella. For a moment, his heart beats a little faster before he recognizes her. His lips flatten.

"Mycroft has my number. Tell him to call."

She takes a step closer and lays a manicured hand on his arm. Runs it lightly up and down his sleeve. "John, let's not be difficult."

She's persuasive, he'll give her that. With her velvet purr and hint of a smirk as she glances between him the waiting black Jaguar, any man (or woman) would be hard-pressed not to follow.

But he's painfully tired of the dramatics.

"I've had a bit of a bad day, and I would really just like to be left alone right now. Mycroft has the whole British government to do his spying for him. He hardly needs me."

"John. Let's go."

She smiles again at him. This time, he sees the threat in it.

He takes one last sip of his coffee and submits.

* * *

><p>Mycroft Holmes never ceases to amaze him with the assortment of sinister derelict buildings and factories he has at his disposal when he wants to abduct John for one of their "talks." Tonight is no different. John hasn't the slightest idea where he is, but he has been through enough such experiences to believe that no real harm will come to him. With a sigh, he steps out of the Jaguar and looks around.<p>

He finds Mycroft standing a few yards away, posed with his umbrella like he is about to begin a stage number. _Dramatic, indeed._

"Good evening, John."

"Mycroft."

He feels the elder Holmes' sharp gaze running up and down his person. "Ah, another girlfriend gone. Pity. My condolences." His voice is slippery and discordant and insincere, utterly contrasting his younger sibling's polished tones.

John's head cocks slightly to the side. "How would you kn—oh never mind."

Mycroft smiles, though it wouldn't charm a viper. "And how's little brother?"

"Well enough, considering I think he sees right through your Adler bullshit."

"Ah. Well, that's to be expected."

"Is it? Is it ok that Sherlock's been lied to about the whereabouts of the only woman he's ever—," John has to pause to choose his words, "been _attracted_ to?"

Something dark passes over Mycroft's steady gaze, but his thin-lipped smile never changes. "_Attracted to_? Possibly, in some sense of the word. Though I doubt Irene Alder's tastes were ever really _for_ him. She liked puzzles. Sherlock is one of the best, as you well know."

John isn't quite sure what direction Mycroft is taking the conversation, but every fiber of him is on edge.

"Yeah. Ok. Well, there you have it. He's coping. Anything else?"

"There, there, John. I'm only concerned. Remember that."

"Great. Can I go now?"

Mycroft's eyes narrow, and John can't help but stand a little straighter.

"Sans his late intellectual sparring partner," the elder Holmes continues, "what else has my brother done lately to occupy his time? You're blog hasn't been updated."

"He's… being Sherlock."

An eyebrow rises. "No new…acquaintances?"

"He has me."

"_Of course he does_. How could I forget? Although I doubt your dimensions are 32-24-34. Perhaps that's for the best."

John's gaze ices over. "Ok, we're done here." He turns and walks back to the car.

"No need to be so defensive, John," Mycroft calls out to him. "I hardly think Sherlock needs a bulldog."

John opens the door and looks back at Mycroft.

"No, he doesn't. Perhaps that's why you're afraid to talk to him yourself." John slams the door and doesn't look back as the Jaguar speeds away into the night.

* * *

><p><strong>20 minutes later—<strong>

John squints out the blackened window as the Jaguar pulls alongside the curb.

"It' a block away still."

The brunette looks John over and shrugs. "I thought your limp was psychosomatic?"

"It is…was, but—"

"Then you'll walk a block, Dr. Watson." She looks back down at her phone again. John sighs and gets out a block from 221B. The car disappears down the street.

It is well after midnight, and the street is eerily tranquil. He takes him time, watching the shadows. Listening. _It's so very quiet tonight._

At last, John arrives at his doorstep. The blood drains from his face.

"Oh, God."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Please feel free to leave encouragement and/or feedback. It is the only (and best) reward for writing to an online audience.


	3. Chapter 3

**'_Hello sexy. I'm lost without you. Stop pouting.'_**

John Watson regards the handwritten note slipped under the brass door knocker, his mind awhirl. At his feet, a suspicious closed cardboard box sits on the doorstep. John looks around him, desperately wishing for his gun. _Moriarty, you bastard. You're not going to blow me up twice. _

The box jolts. John hears a faint scratching noise from within.

_No bomb I know sounds like that._

Not that it matters. His heartbeat races. His fingers are on his mobile, ready to punch in Lestrade's number, but still John hesitates. The police had already been out once already a few hours before. He didn't want to bring them back again. With the bomb squad this time.

The rain falls heavier around him. The cardboard darkens in a splattered pattern. Still no 'boom.' _Maybe it is ok._

And then he hears something odd.

Taking a deep breath, the doctor kneels and gingerly lifts open one of the cardboard flaps.

"Oh….my."

He really doesn't know what else to say. John closes the flap again, and with another deep breath, lifts the box up.

He's thankful no one is around to watch, because he had his eyes screwed shut, just in case his initial instincts were correct. The night is still quiet around him. Grabbing the note in his teeth, he pushes the door of 221B open and steps into the warm, dry building.

Given the contents of the box, he is loath to go straight to Sherlock. _Mrs. Hudson, on the other hand…worth a shot, anyway._

He repositions the box in one arm, spits out the note on top and knocks on Mrs. Hudson's door. It swings open with his hand still raised for a second knock.

John takes a breath. "Hi. Sorry about the late intrusion—"

Despite the open door, he can't see anyone in the foyer of her flat.

"Uh, hello? Mrs. Hudson, are you there?"

The door swings further open, revealing Sherlock in his navy dressing gown.

"What are you doing down here?" John sputters. He tries to think of an alternative plan. _Nothing._

Sherlock's eyes narrow. "What do you have?"

John glances at the box still in his grasp. "Oh this? Um, left outside. It was raining. I thought to bring it in."

"Post doesn't arrive after midnight."

"Not regularly, no."

Sherlock cocks his head to read the scribbled note, half smeared by being in John's mouth. An elegant brow lifts.

"Can I come in now?" John questions. He walks into the flat regardless, desperate to ignore _that_ damnable expression on Sherlock's face. "Mrs. Hudson?"

This time, she appears at his beckon, eyes unfocused and a misshapen smile on her face.

John puts the box down. "Sherlock, what did you give her?"

The detective feigns innocence. "Evening soother, nothing more."

"My hip does bother me in this dampness, John," the landlady interjects. "You of all people know—oh, you brought a parcel!" As she steps closer, she waves a hand in front of her nose. "Oh, I do think you need to clean up, though. Smell a bit off. Damp clothing, maybe?"

"Damp with what, Mrs. Hudson, is the correct question," Sherlock says. He kneels and opens the cardboard flaps, touching them the minimal amount possible.

His efforts reveal a small black puppy. It sits on a few sodden newspaper clippings of the infamous consulting detective.

"Oh Sherlock, just look at it!" the landlady exclaims, clapping her hands together as she peers inside.

"That's just the evening soother talking, Mrs. Hudson."

The puppy's small tail thumps against the ruined newspaper clippings as large brown eyes look up at them. John kneels and reaches out a hand. The puppy licks his fingers and stands on its hind legs in attempt to get out.

Sherlock flips the cardboard flap back over it. The puppy yelps.

"I don't keep _pets_." He practically growls the last word.

John refuses to look penitent as he stands and regards his flatmate. "Someone thinks you should have it."

"I. Don't. Keep. Pets."

"_But it's just a little puppy._"

"How observant."

Mrs. Hudson looks frantically between the two men. It feels as though the air has iced over. "Regardless," she says, "there's nothing that can be done at this time at night. John, let's fetch it something to eat from the kitchen. And get that smelly box out of my hallway."

* * *

><p><strong>30 minutes later-<strong>

Strains of _Confutatis Maledictis_ from Mozart's Requiem can be heard from upstairs.

John rubs his head and sits at Mrs. Hudson's small kitchen table. The puppy lies on an old blanket she had found, fast asleep. Its paws twitch every so often as it dreams. Or perhaps it's responding to Sherlock's violin playing. The sight would normally make him smile. Right now, he's hunched over, deflated.

"What was I to do with it?" he says, looking at Mrs. Hudson. "Honestly?"

She shrugs. "Nothing else we could do. But the little thing can't stay. A life with Sherlock…he's just not that type."

John sighs. "I know it. And I suspect whoever sent it knows that too."

"It came with a note, didn't it?"

"Of course, but this is Sherlock. No one would ever think to sign such a thing. That would be too…normal."

"Or dull."

"That too."

The puppy yawns, gets up, circles, and curls up again in a different position.

"Oh, just look at it though," Mrs. Hudson says. Whatever effect of the soother had is starting to wear off, and her kindly gaze no longer has the blank appearance. "Such a sweet little thing. Who would drop it off?"

John frowns. His eyes have the dry, burning sensation from being awake too long. His perceptive landlady gives him a pat on the sleeve.

"Go to bed, dear. No point in worrying over this tonight. But be sure to take the little one up with you. I won't stand for piddle stains in my kitchen."

John resists a tired sigh and picks the blanket up, puppy within, and carries it up several flights of stairs to his room. The puppy squirms a bit in his arms, but then settles back into the blanket as he arranges it in the corner of the bedroom.

"No piddle stains. Or scratching. Or barking, for the matter," he lectures it. The puppy cocks its head, and then lays its head down on its front paws.

"Good dog," he intones, patting its head. The little black tail wags. _Mrs. Hudson is right,_ he thinks. _Who would give such a dear creature up?_ John doesn't want to think about the obvious answer.

He's still dressed but doesn't care. Just collapses on the bed, pulls a blanket over himself, and falls fast asleep to the sound of Sherlock's violin melodies.

* * *

><p>Daylight is streaming through the window when John jolts up from bed. He blinks and tries to order the barrage of events from yesterday in his mind. The fog of sleep still hangs over him, and it takes a moment for him to remember. <em>The<em> _dog._

"Oh, god," he mutters, and throws the blanket off of him. "Puppy? Where are you?"

He looks around the sparse room. The blanket serving as the small canine's bed is still crumpled in the corner with a bit of the edge chewed, but no black furry creature is to be seen.

_Oh, no. Sherlock._

John nearly trips over his own feet as he dashes downstairs. The sight he sees is better and worse than he could have imagined. Sherlock is pacing a few feet before the puppy, having some sort of staring contest with it. For the canine's part, it's panting happily and eagerly watching the detective's every tense move.

"Good morning," John says cautiously.

Sherlock glares at him without stopping his pacing. "That _thing_ is still here."

John tries to ignore the seething tone. He puts on a forced smile. "Well, yeah, I haven't had a chance to ask around yet if anyone wants a puppy."

"_It's still here!"_

"Yes, we've established that." John sniffs the air. "Is that coffee I smell?" _God bless Mrs. Hudson_, he thinks, and grabs a mug from the kitchen.

Sherlock is still riveted on the small black dog. "Look at my rug! Now what am I to do? Throw it out probably."

His flatmate pours himself a cup of the fresh brew and walks back into the sitting area to investigate the distressing spot. He sees a small wet area by one of the chairs.

"Oh, it's just a little accident. I'll get cleaned up in a bit," John offers, and takes a sip of the coffee. He promptly spits it out.

"God, what is this?"

Sherlock looks over. "Oh. An experiment, obviously." His brow furrows. "Why are you drinking it?"

John sets the mug down and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The puppy is still panting, content to watch the drama unfold. John groans. A fine start to another day at 221B Baker Street.

It takes some time to convince Sherlock the oriental rug doesn't need to be thrown out over a small puppy mess. Even so, John can do little to sate the detective's nerves.

Sherlock looks in disgust around the two chairs despite John's thorough rug cleaning, and instead sits on the sofa and picks up a newspaper. He flips through a few pages furiously before tossing it down again.

"You threw out evidence."

John looks up, in the middle chewing a biscuit he found. He takes a sip of tea and swallows.

"The box was pure rubbish, being soaked through with piss and the like." He pauses, his brow rising. "Wait a minute, you're telling me you haven't analyzed the mud on the paws, or something to find the location of where the puppy's from?"

"_It wouldn't sit still_. Hence why I prefer inanimate objects."

"Well, you saw the note. You have an adoring fan base." _To put it mildly._

If it is possible, Sherlock's scowl deepens. Not that John sees it long. Sherlock reclines on the sofa and flips over so his back is toward his flatmate. He pulls his legs in like a petulant child. His dressing gown flows around his lean body like a cape.

"I don't want gifts. _I don't need gifts. _And I certainly won't suffer _that_." Sherlock motions in the general direction of the puppy. "Messes aside, dogs bark. It ruins my thinking."

His voice is a bit muffled by the sofa cushion, but John doesn't miss the acerbic tone. The doctor looks over. The puppy is curled up on rug sleeping. It too seems tired of Sherlock's tantrums.

John rolls his eyes. "Yes, he's terribly loud."

Sherlock flips back over in a blur of motion and silk and regards John with ferocity.

"He?"

"Well, yes. Obviously. The puppy's a boy."

Sherlock makes a sort of 'humph' noise and faces away again. "Get it out."

John takes another sip of tea. "A dog might be good, you know," he argues, futilely. "Some archenemy could wonder around here. You might need a bit of a warning."

"_That _type of warning is precisely what I don't need."

"What then? Are you going to shoot a happy face in an intruder, if and when they arrive?"

"Would do the job respectably."

"And if that fails, I suppose your violin arpeggios could finish them off," John growls under his breath.

Despite the verbal barb, Sherlock turns back around and looks at John. His flatmate can't see the diminutive upward quirk of his lips.

The doctor sets his cup back in the saucer. "Look, I'll ask around. Maybe someone can take puppy. But for the time being I'll not see him thrown out into the cold. You're just going to have to deal with it."

John receives another 'humph' and gets the back treatment again.

* * *

><p><strong>3 hrs later-<strong>

John's tapping away on the laptop keyboard when Sherlock appears over his shoulder.

"_Misadventures of the Cardboard Box_? What sort of title is that?"

John pauses and looks at him. "The title of this blog piece. Completely appropriate, given the circumstances."

"You're writing about that…_thing_? Whatever for?"

"People love animals. They'll love hearing about Sherlock versus _The Dog_."

Sherlock snorts and moves back into the kitchen. John ignores the muffled snap of the blow torch as it lights. A sharp scent fills his nostrils, and it's not from the puppy.

He hits save and in a few more clicks, the story is posted.

"There, Sherlock. Let's see how readers respond—" He drifts off in mid sentence. Sherlock has turned off the blow torch and is looking intently at his phone.

John's moment of conspiratorial blogger glee is interrupted by the flash of…_something_…that crosses the consulting detective's face.

"What is it?"

"Lestrade. I'm needed."

John frowns. "Alright. …I'll just stay here then."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You come along too. I'll need your expertise."

John snaps the laptop closed.

* * *

><p><strong>18 minutes later-<strong>

Both men are seated in the cab watching the London streets slip by. One would never guess that only twenty minutes before, Sherlock was running around the flat in his dressing gown with a lit blow torch. He's now battle ready in a tailored suit, a starched forest green collared shirt and his usual charcoal wool coat and scarf.

Despite his best efforts, John looks a bit dowdy. He still hasn't shaven, and his shirt is a wrinkled mess. But it's chilly out and he's thankful he'll have to keep a coat on. But, in his defense, after spending an inordinate amount of time coercing Mrs. Hudson to watch the new furry acquisition, he had little time to prep.

"So Cambridge, huh?" he asks. "And why are we going there?"

Sherlock is silent.

"Well, as long as you're paying the cab fare."

Sherlock finally looks over at him. "Lestrade has a colleague on the police force in Cambridge. Our insight is required on a current investigation."

"I see."

A few more pregnant moments go by.

Sherlock sighs. "Oh, just bloody say it!"

John feigns innocence. "What?"

"What you are clearly thinking."

The doctor purses his lips. Takes a breath before he launches in. "Alright. Fine. Lestrade has contacted us on several cases that you've completely ignored. What's so different about this one?"

Sherlock is silent so long that John thinks he won't answer. But at length, the consulting detective responds. "He forwarded a picture with the text."

The reluctant admission piques John's curiosity. "Can I look?"

Sherlock pulls his phone out and brings the photo up. John stares at it, revulsion filling him.

"Oh. God, that's awful."

"Precisely. Hence why I need your expertise."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Did I get you with the previous cliffhanger? :) For those opposed to the dog, bear with me. This isn't a cutsie situational fic. I promise, the puppy serves a real purpose in character development. But I have a fairly dark tale planned for John and Sherlock, and there needs to be a few lighter moments before all hell breaks loose…

Anyone know the _Misadventures of the Cardboard Box_ reference? Yes? No? I bask in the radiance of my own cleverness. Ha.

Feedback is like writer cookies. Or hugs. I like hugs. Don't hold back.


	4. Chapter 4

John Watson slides out of the cab and takes in the sights. Cambridge. He has only been here once before for a series of dry medical lectures that he has long since forgotten, but it coming back to the academia-infused environment is a welcomed change. Barring the crime investigation bit.

The medieval towers of the university rise before them, ornate and foreboding. Sherlock navigates the walkways as if he owns the place while John hobbles along beside, taking in the impressive stone and brick surroundings. He's fallen behind and has to jog a few steps to catch up to the consulting detective.

"The University of Cambridge is your alma mater, correct, Sherlock?" he asks, his breathing rushed.

Sherlock frowns but his pace doesn't lessen. "I have little interest in regaling the past. Not when there's a job at hand."

With that, he pushes open the front door of a massive white Greek revival edifice and leads them through a maze of hallways. At the end of one hall, a circle of police are standing anxiously.

John lifts up the yellow tape that blocks the area off and they duck under it. One of the officers notices them and rushes over.

"'Ay! You there!" he yells. "Leave now! This wing's been blocked off."

John can practically see the steam roll off Sherlock. "Tell your superior," the detective intones, "that Sherlock Holmes is here at D.I. Lestrade's request."

The officer has a blank expression. "D.I. who?"

"Do I _really_ need to repeat myself?" Sherlock's voice could freeze the surrounding air.

The officer scrambles away like a whipped dog and speaks to a heavyset man dressed in a drab suit and tie. John notices the man's eyes roll even from this distance. Sherlock's fists clench. _Oh, God. Here we go, _the doctor thinks. In a moment of self-preservation, he takes a step from Sherlock and pretends to be intently gazing at a plaque on the wall.

"Idiots. All of them," Sherlock says quietly, his gaze predatory.

"_Play nice,_ Sherlock," John warns under his breath. The consulting detective has become unearthly still, as if chiseled from marble. It's an unnerving skill that makes him appear even more god-like.

The heavyset man approaches and looks at John first, sizing him up. "So you're the famous detective?"

"Uh—"

"No, I am," Sherlock corrects, his eyes narrowing on the man. And without further preamble—"Show us the crime scene."

The officer, (named Dugens, John notes, from the badge hanging from the suit lapel), is obviously not used to being ordered about, and John sees him take in a deep breath before acquiescing. "This way, please. Research laboratory two."

There's a hitch in Sherlock's step, so minute that it takes John's practiced eye to notice it. He looks at the detective, his forehead lined. The silence speaks for him. _Sherlock, what is it?_

Sherlock gives him only the smallest of glances in return. The effect is immediate. _Nothing. Leave me be. _He disappears into the room marked with a '2' on the door.

John drops a pace or two back and allows the consulting detective his moment of glory in the crime scene before 'interrupting.' Yet even then, John finds himself pausing a little longer outside the door. He's not sure he wants to go in at all. The photo on the phone was horrific. Sherlock can walk into these cases like some dark angel and impassively survey the damage while everyone else gets caught up on the wreckage. It's his gift. Or curse.

Certainly, John's an experienced army physician. He's seen a lifetime worth of wounds and horrors and technically signed himself up to take on more of it. But it was all orders in the military. He never saw the enemy. He saw the _effects _of the enemy. With Sherlock, it's different. John sees the battlefield and all the players.

So yes, he's hesitating now. Hiding even. And it's not really because of the gore that is surely contained in the room just beyond. It's the intent behind it. _An_ evilness that Sherlock can look in the eye and then fling away. _But it lingers for the rest of us_, John thinks wearily.

"Where. Is. The. Body?"

Sherlock's furious questioning drives John from his thoughts. He finally steps into the room.

And promptly wishes he hadn't.

_This wasn't just a crime. It was an execution, _he realizes.

Blood saturates the bench top surface. Dark stripes of it paint the cabinet doors and coalesce in a large puddle on the floor. At least seven pints, by his reckoning. He walks an arch around the area, surveying the details. Thanks to Sherlock's tutelage, he is starting to view it as if the body was still there. The signs are clear enough. There are still imprints of a (now absent) blade scratched into the bench surface. John's eyes narrow. _The victim's torso was pinned to the laboratory bench, arms outstretched on either side like a crucified butterfly in an entomologist's collection. Facing heavenwards so the last sight would be the killer above, and then…God._

_Jesus, that's awful stuff._

Somewhere in his periphery, John sees Dugens shift on his feet. "Body's been moved, Mr. Holmes," he drawls. "_Obviously_."

"Whatever for?" John asks, folding his arms.

Dugens continues, unfazed. "The college wanted the body gone as quickly as possible. For obvious reasons."

"Then what was the point of summoning me?" Sherlock interjects. "I need a crime scene intact or _it just. Doesn't. Work_!"

"Funny, that. Because Lestrade said that you were the best."

John's mouth drops open. _The man did not just…_

A female police officer standing off to the side steps into the fray. Her gaze hasn't left Sherlock since he arrived. The invitation is clear enough, though the detective seems wholly ignorant of it.

"Nothing else has been touched, sir, I assure you," she offers contritely, much to the ire of her superior.

Sherlock paces. "_Your very presence_ has tampered the scene," he hisses back. His hand ruffles his hair, an unconscious movement.

"Sherlock—" comes John's soft warning. The tension is so thick it's suffocating. He clears his throat.

"The victim… was a student then?" John asks, his calm voice in stark contrast to Sherlock's incensed low tones.

Dugens turns and regards John as if noticing him for first time. "A graduate student, yes. No criminal past. Not so much as a traffic infraction. And well liked, by all accounts."

He gives Sherlock a pointed glance on the last phrase, to which the detective ignores. Sherlock has stopped pacing and has his pocket magnifying glass out, but John knows that his real tricks with these cases surface when he's able to survey the body, not just the morbid aftermath.

The detective snaps the magnifying glass closed and stands to his full height—a few inches above every other person in the room. He grabs a blood splattered notebook lying abandoned on the bench top, (the victim's, John surmises), and sifts at a rapid-fire pace through the pages. John can practically hear gears turning.

"Mmmm. Elegant, but no," Sherlock murmurs.

Confused glances are exchanged across the room, but Sherlock's oblivious to all. He tears a page out, grabs a pen and scribbles something out. John opens his mouth to correct him, but thinks better of it. What's the point? It's Sherlock, after all.

The consulting detective squares his shoulders and hands the piece of paper over to Dugens.

"Get the body to this address now."

The man snorts. "That's impossible. There are laws."

Sherlock leans forward, his blue eyes piercing. "Then _bend _them. Or do not ask for my help. I assume that is why you contacted Lestrade. You are out of your depth on this one. And there's bound to be a lot of pressure from university higher-ups, correct? All those donors. Millions of pounds a year. No one's going to want to fund a school with the stigma of such a grisly unsolved homicide. Especially not a university that prides itself on the sciences …"

Dugens turns so red that John fears he might explode. "Alright! You'll get your bloody corpse!"

The consulting detective throws the man an obnoxious smile. "Excellent. Pleasure working with you."

He turns on his heel and storms out of the room with his coat billowing out behind him. The other officers, along with John, can do nothing but watch mutely at Sherlock's disappearing silhouette down the hallway.

There's a tense silent moment when their attention turns back to John. He swallows. "Uh, well, he's my ride. Sorry about all this," John mumbles, and hurries off after Sherlock.

He has just about caught up with the detective when they are met by a barrage of press outside the building doors. Sherlock shoves his way through, and John follows in his path.

John can only pick out bits and pieces of the voices calling out.

"_Mr. Holmes! Please, were you summoned by the university?"_

"— _get a statement?"_

"_Where's the hat, Mr. Holmes?"_

Off to the side, another newswoman is reporting on camera. _"Well outside of his usual London stomping grounds, the famed amateur detective Sherlock Holmes—" (_John sincerely hopes Sherlock didn't pick up the last bit).

Sherlock is almost to the street where a cab waiting when someone grabs John's sleeve. He turns. It's a young man, glasses askew on his face, his eyes swollen and red.

"Wait! Please, what's happened? What's happened to her!"

John tugs his arm free of the young man's grasp. "What are you talking about?"

"That's my girlfriend. The one they found."

The cameras continue to flash behind them. John takes a scrap of paper from his pocket and jots something down. He hands it to the distraught boyfriend and gives him a pat on the shoulder. It's all he has time for.

Sherlock is in the cab waiting when John gets in. He is facing forward, his features back to their typical aloof state.

"That was the boyfriend," John says, answering the unasked question.

"Mmmm."

The rest of the car ride back to London is spent in silence. The sun is waning and John's stomach is growling embarrassingly loud. Actually, the doctor almost hopes that Sherlock hears and takes the cue that they need to stop for a bite.

Such gastronomic aspirations fall to ruin once he hears Sherlock give terse directions for the cabby to drive to St. Bartholomew's.

"Sherlock, the body's not going to be there yet. 'Bending the rules' or not."

A few minutes later, the cab pulls up alongside the depressing gray building. Sherlock opens the door. John sighs and goes for his as well.

"No, you stay here."

John looks over at him, brow furrowed. "Then what are you doing?"

Sherlock gives John a flash of a genuine smile. "Picking a fight."

John shakes his head. "Picking a—what?"

Doesn't matter, Sherlock is already gone. Ten minutes later, he reappears, a smug grin plastered on his face. He ducks into the cab and it speeds away in the direction of Baker Street.

John stares straight ahead. "Do I want to know?"

"No."

"Ok."

A few minutes pass. Suddenly, Sherlock leans forward. "Stop here," he orders the cabby.

John looks questioningly at him. They're nowhere near Baker Street.

Sherlock opens the door. "Good Chinese take-away here," he says. "You _are_ hungry?" It's less of a question than a statement.

_Sometimes, I could just kiss you_, _Sherlock_, John thinks gleefully. A delighted smile spreads across his face as he exits the cab with the rushed enthusiasm of a schoolboy leaving detention.

"Thought you'd never ask," he says, placing a hand over his rumbling stomach.

Sherlock smirks and holds the restaurant door open. "You forget who you're dealing with."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Sherlock DID notice John's growling stomach. (awwwww)


	5. Chapter 5

John is bogged down with the bags of Chinese take-away, so Sherlock enters the flat first. His coat is damp from the mist outside and he takes it off and hangs it on the banister. His blue eyes pierce the shadows around him.

_Something is amiss._

Time seems to slow as Sherlock stands at the foot of the stairs. _Entryway floor wet until the second step. Someone entered less than 30 minutes ago. Approximately a meter stride. Probability: male. Overcompensating then. _He sniffs. _Wet dog intermixed with fainter notes of a French aftershave. _A revolting combination. Almost pungent enough to obscure the lasting hint of cigarette smoke. _Almost._

Mrs. Hudson rushes out the kitchen side door, her face lined. She looks down at him, her hands pressed together.

"Oh ,Sherlock, thank God you're here! The little one won't stop yapping ever since he arrived."

The edges of Sherlock's mouth pull down. He plays along as he slowly climbs the stairs. "Since _who _arrived, Mrs. Hudson?"

He doesn't wait for her to answer. Steps over the frantic puppy bouncing at his feet and enters the sitting room, eyes narrowed.

"Hello, little brother." Mycroft sets down his teacup and saucer and rises from the chair by the fireplace. His umbrella is propped against the table. Arranged flawlessly for appearances, just like the rest of him.

The elder Holmes' thin-lipped smile cuts through the room. Sherlock is immune to its charms, so he just glares. Simmers even.

The puppy darts in and pounces close to Mycroft's shoes, its small canines exposed. Sherlock sees his brother eyeing the umbrella.

"Really, Mycroft?" Sherlock reprimands. His gaze drops down the growling puppy. "Good dog," he praises under his breath.

His older brother looks daggers at him. "Call off your pet, Sherlock. Now!" Mycroft's voice is low and deadly. He takes another step backwards until his knees ram into the chair. Sherlock watches mutely, his features unreadable.

"What's all the fuss about?" An oblivious John trudges in through the kitchen door, his face hidden by large bags in either arm. He dumps his burdens gracelessly onto the table. The puppy's focus on Mycroft is shattered as it runs to greet John.

The doctor smiles and kneels. "Why, hello there," he murmurs. Pats the puppy's wiggling body. Mrs. Hudson coughs and John looks up. His smile fades as he stands slowly.

"Mycroft. Nice to see you again…so soon," he stammers.

Sherlock throws sharp glance in John's direction. The doctor feels the hairs on his arm rise. There's a current pulsing through the room akin to the energy before a storm. John can practically hear lightning crack and thunder roll, with Sherlock at the epicenter.

"To what do we owe the pleasure?" Sherlock asks. He pulls off his scarf and sets it onto the table by the window. Mycroft watches every elegant movement of those long, bone white fingers with rapt fascination.

The puppy growls.

"Do shut up," the elder Holmes orders. Attention shifted, Mycroft eyes the dog warily and puts on another mock smile for his brother. "Can't I just visit?" He settles himself back into the aged chair and crosses one leg over the other like he bloody owns the place.

Sherlock presses his hands together beneath his chin. "You're not one for social calls and let's not start. You require something. So what is it? And please hurry, I am rather preoccupied."

"Ah, yes. Running around in Cambridge today. I saw on the news. Miss it?"

Sherlock's jaw twitches. "Miss. What?"

Before Mycroft can respond, his nostrils flare. "What is that wretched odor?" He looks over his shoulder toward the kitchen.

John is in the process of pulling out several white cardboard containers from the bag and arranging them on the table. Mrs. Hudson goes to the cabinets for some plates.

"Ah. Cantonese cuisine. Nothing like the smell of fried meat scraps and MSG," Mycroft remarks. He looks over at Sherlock, his gaze running up and down his brother's rigid lean form.

"Looking a bit more gaunt than usual, though, Sherlock. Perhaps it might do you good."

"Want any, Mycroft?" John calls from the kitchen. He dumps a whole container of fried rice onto his plate. And he fully intends to eat every last bit.

"No. He's dieting," Sherlock answers for his brother. Shoots Mycroft a derisive look.

"Ok, well, you guys can talk, but _I'm eating_," John says, taking a seat. Both Holmes brothers watch silently as he takes a few boorishly large mouthfuls. Mrs. Hudson clicks her tongue and moves Sherlock's microscope to the countertop, safely out of harm's way.

"How foul," Mycroft comments, frowning. "Anyway, Sherlock, you are correct. I am here for a reason."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and sits in the adjacent chair. Waits, fingers tapping on the worn leather.

"A gravesite has been vandalized," Mycroft discloses.

"So?"

The artificial smile reappears. "I'm busy. I need you to investigate the culprit, Sherlock."

"No."

"Why ever not?"

Sherlock gives a smile almost as lethal as his brother's. "I'm busy."

"Yes. Cambridge murder. This might hold more…personal significance, however."

"Why should I care about a gravesite?"

"_When it's our mother's, _Sherlock."

In the kitchen, John's fork clatters loudly against the porcelain plate as he looks over, shock evident on his face. Sherlock's fingers stop their rhythmic beat. It's deathly silent throughout the flat.

"And what I am to do about it, Mycroft? Go replace the headstone."

John's mouth drops open at Sherlock's callous tone.

There's another few beats of silence before Mycroft continues, unaffected. "There's evidence that more than the headstone has been disturbed."

Sherlock looks away a moment, his eyes closing. At length, he looks at Mycroft again.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, brother, but I did say I was preoccupied. Command another one of your minions to do your bidding."

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson and John's reproach can be heard from the kitchen in unison.

Mycroft leisurely stands up. "Very well, Sherlock. Glad to know the years haven't softened you."

The puppy growls from its resting place under the kitchen table. Mycroft glowers at it and picks up his umbrella like he's about to fence. The puppy quiets. Mycroft squares his shoulders and turns to regard the kitchen's human occupants, dignity restored.

"A thousand apologies for the intrusion. Mrs. Hudson, the tea was delightful." He looks at John and his smile fades. "I don't wish to interrupt your domestic bliss any longer tonight."

In his periphery, John sees Sherlock take in a deep breath. Mycroft is gone by the time he exhales.

"Unbelievable," John says.

Sherlock's brows rise. "What?"

"How you two carry on. It's…simply unbelievable."

_Silence._ And then—

"Juvenile, you mean."

John nods and swallows a bite. "Yeah, that could be a good description." He spoons another sizeable portion of rice onto his plate.

Sherlock stares blankly into space.

"How about some orange chicken?" John offers, pushing over the carton toward the empty plate on the table.

Like in a trance, Sherlock gets up and walks past them to his bedroom. The door shuts quietly.

John sighs and gets up. Mrs. Hudson lays a hand on his arm and shakes her head. "Let him be, dear." She looks mournfully in the direction of the bedroom. "He feels more than you give him credit for, you know."

The doctor sits down again and stares at the empty plate and unoccupied chair. "That's what worries me."

* * *

><p>John is sipping his coffee when the buzzer rings. It's early in the morning, and he nearly drops his cup at the noise.<p>

"Now who could that be?" he asks, talking to the puppy at his feet. The dog sighs and drops its head back on its paws, waiting.

The buzzer rings again.

"Fine. _I'll_ get the door," John concedes, setting down the cup. He's hardly in a condition for visitors. He's unshaven, his hair is sticking up in every direction and he's still wearing his flannel pajama set and worn robe. Nonetheless, the doctor proceeds to march down the stairs barefoot and open the flat door.

He's greeted by a stunningly beautiful young woman. Twenty-something and dressed to perfection, albeit a bit somberly in all black. Between the loose blonde curls that fall over her shoulders to her stunning russet-colored eyes, he's lost.

"Umm. Hello," he stammers, devoid of charm.

She looks at him warily. "Uh, hi. This is the right address for the detective? 221B?" She references a scrap of paper in her hands.

"Uh, yeah." John attempts to put on a reassuring smile. "Yes," he reiterates, his cheeks flaming red, "this is the place. Have…we met? Or do you read the blog?"

She looks puzzled. "No. I'm here with Anthony Tigins."

"Oh, right. Of…course." He bobs his head but has no idea who she's talking about. He sticks his head a bit further out and looks around. Odd. She's very much standing alone.

The young woman reads his vacant expression and continues. "Anthony Tigins is Shauna's boyfriend." _Still nothing._ She sighs. "Cambridge. You were there yesterday to investigate Shauna's murder."

It all comes back to him. The scrap of paper. He'd given the boyfriend their address before he had to dash off to the cab.

"Right. I'm glad you stopped by. Let me get," John turns at bellows up the stairs, "—SHERLOCK!"

There's no response or sound of any kind. Like he really expected one. And here he's standing around like an arse in his pajamas on the doorstep.

"Should we come back another time?" she asks.

John turns back at her and shakes his head. "No, no. Come on up. I must apologize, though, for my appearance."

She smiles weakly at him and looks back at a cab parked on the curb and waves her hand. John recognizes the distraught bespectacled young man from yesterday step out. If possible, the guy looks even worse today.

"We have to go to the memorial in a few hours," she explains quietly, "but Anthony wanted to stop by and talk to you. I came along for support."

"That's very good of you," John says, and he means it. "Please do come in."

He holds up the door and both visitors step in. They no sooner get to the stairs when the puppy comes bounding out, tongue lolling out of its mouth.

"Oh, just look at it," the young woman exclaims, moving a little quicker up the stairs to meet it. The puppy wriggles in her hands and gives her several large kisses across her chin and lips. For a second, John is quite jealous.

Anthony looks on the whole scene despondently. "Evelyn, c'mon."

They move to the sofa and sit down. John pours them both coffee and excuses himself for a few minutes. He knocks on Sherlock's bedroom door.

"Sherlock, open up!" he urges, his voice low. "We have…visitors."

Nothing. John sighs and pushes open the door.

Hopelessly tangled in the sheets, Sherlock is so pale and still that for a moment, John wonders if he's overdosed and died. But then John sees the slight rise and fall of the bare torso. _Alright, still with us._ Nicotine patches line both of Sherlock's arms. Definitely well beyond the recommended dose, John notes. He'll have to do something about that later.

The doctor closes the door. After Mycroft's visit, perhaps it is better to let Sherlock sleep. John walks back out to the two young people who look like they are seriously reconsidering their visit. Perhaps it's the skull. Or the graffiti on the wallpaper. John hopes he can make a better impression.

"I…um…just give me another minute and I'll be right with you," he says. (_Evelyn? _he thinks) flashes him an encouraging smile. John's heart does a small skip.

Five minutes later, he's changed and slightly more presentable. He pulls over a chair and picks up a notepad. Sits across from them much in the way a psychiatrist would.

"So sorry about the wait."

_Silence._

"So, you mentioned Shauna's memorial is later today?" he asks, desperate to fill the silence. _John, you idiot. Probably not the best way to start things off._

The boyfriend nods. "Yes."

The puppy jumps up on the couch between them and lies down. For the first time, Anthony pets its head. His stiff posture relaxes a bit.

"You seem to be holding up well," the doctor comments. "There was a lot of commotion yesterday."

Evelyn nods. "There was. Awful day." She flashes a sympathetic look at Anthony. "We want justice for her, but we need to say a proper goodbye. Shauna didn't have any other family, so it's just us."

"You knew her a long time?"

"Yeah. I was her flatmate at Cambridge. And she's was with Anthony for the last four years."

"Wow, that's something."

Anthony scratches the puppy's ears. "It's still a shock. I don't know what sort of monster could do this to Shauna. She was intelligent and kind and—" He begins to choke up. John runs to the kitchen and brings back a box of tissues.

"Is there anything suspicious you can think of?" he asks, setting the box down. "Anything at all? The smallest details could help."

Anthony and Evelyn look at each other a moment and shake their heads.

"Nothing," Anthony says. "Shauna had been spending a lot of time in the research lab for her dissertation. Brilliant stuff. Probably a future Nobel prize winner."

John nods. The conversation continues along this route for another hour. Since they have little to offer in terms of suspicious persons or questionable behavior from the victim, he jots down the basics. Brief personal history. Education. Relationship with professors and fellow students. Current address.

"Can I get of copy of Shauna's research materials?" John asks, putting his pen down. "Might be something in there."

Anthony shrugs. "Yeah, shouldn't be a problem. Most of it is at the flat. Although it's really complicated stuff. Might not get a lot out of it."

"I'm a doctor," John says flatly.

Anthony looks shocked, then remorseful. "Sorry, mate. I didn't mean to insult you. The police are complete dolts. But that's why we're here."

Inwardly, John chastises himself. "No, don't worry. Shauna's work probably is beyond me. But I know someone who could decipher it well enough."

Evelyn frowns. "And who's that?"

"My flatmate, Sherlock. Loves that chemistry stuff."

Evelyn looks over John's shoulder into the kitchen. "Yes, I can tell. He's your assistant, then?"

"Oh, no. Not at all. He's actually…the detective. Consulting detective."

"Then you're—?"

"His blogger." The words pop out of John's mouth before he can help himself.

She folds her arms and glares at him. "You said you were a doctor."

"I'm that, too."

"Little over-qualified for a blogger?"

"Well…"

Credibility shot, John's desperate. He needs to move them back on track. "Sherlock and I have looked at a lot of cases with a high degree of success. I—we—want justice for Shauna as much as you do."

The boyfriend looks at Evelyn and shrugs. She shoots him another 'you're insane' look. The puppy yawns and leans more against Anthony.

"Alright. Fine," she says, a weariness pervading her voice. "We pooled our money and we don't have a lot to offer, but here's this..."

She pulls an envelope out of her purse. By John's estimation, it probably has a few hundred pounds in it. By the hard look in her eyes, this is bound to be all they have in the world. He refuses to be the bastard to take it.

"Oh, no charge."

Evelyn looks at him strangely. So John lies. "We have a deal worked out with the police."

Still she extends the envelope to him. "This is for expenses then."

John waves his hand. "Really, we're good. Keep your money."

Evelyn's brow raises a notch, but she places the envelope back into her purse. "Thank you," she says at last.

John grins at her. "Can I get you some more coffee? Might be some fruit in the fridge—"

Evelyn stands. "No. We better get back. Thanks for talking with us Mister—?"

"Watson. John Watson."

"Thank you, Mr. Watson."

"Call me John."

She gives him a look that makes him almost regret his desperate attempt at familiarity. But then she smiles. "Do you have my number, John, just in case you find anything?"

"Uh, no. Here." He scrambles for his phone and gives it to her. She punches in the number and hands it back to him.

"Anthony?" she says. He stands up begrudgingly. The puppy looks up after him, tail thumping quietly against the sofa.

John sees them out. Anthony goes straight to the curb to hail a cab. Evelyn lingers.

"John?" she asks.

"Yes?"

She reaches into her purse and pulls out a picture. She gives it to him. John stares at it. Blinks. Then gives Evelyn a smile he doesn't feel. He tries to hand the photo back.

"No, keep it," she says. "It's the one we're using for the memorial. You need to see what Shauna looked like to us." With that, she turns away and joins Anthony in the cab. John watches it disappear down the street.

_God, he needs a distraction right now._ He stuffs the picture in his pants pocket. Wants to pretend he never saw it. When he gets back upstairs, he makes a beeline for the fridge and opens it. The fridge is almost bare, save for the bag of cadaver toes sitting next to a bowel of grapes. _I could've sworn Mrs. Hudson left some of the Chinese food in here_, he thinks. _Blast, did Sherlock eat his portion after all?_

John shuts the door.

"Christ!"

Sherlock's standing in the kitchen, casually eating a plate of chicken-something-or-other. Watching John like one would watch a zoo animal.

"Language, John."

"When did you get there? Scared me to death."

Sherlock swallows his mouthful. "Who were they?"

"Huh?"

"You walked two people out, a man and a woman, judging by the contrasting sound of heavy footfalls and high heels on the stairs. _Who. Were they_?"

"Oh, Evelyn—drat, I didn't get her last name—"

"And?" Sherlock prods impatiently.

" And Anthony—" John has to think a moment, "Timids? Tigins. Anthony Tigins. Shauna's boyfriend. And Evelyn was her flatmate."

"Shauna?"

"The Cambridge victim."

"I see. What did they have to say?"

John picks up his notes and glances over them, shaking his head. "Honestly, not much. But they did agree to give us Shauna's research materials."

"That should be illuminating." His voice drips with sarcasm.

John snaps his notebook closed. "Well, get up yourself next time if you think you can do a better job."

Sherlock ignores this and sits down in the chair by the window. He opens up John's laptop.

"That's mine."

Sherlock's staring intently at the log in screen. "Yes, apparently."

John just added a new password a few days ago and waits with a measure of anticipation for Sherlock to get locked out. The consulting detective has his long fingers perched over the keys. He looks over at John. After a moment, he smirks to himself and begins to type. Hits ENTER.

The main page lights up.

_Son of a—,_ John thinks, equal parts irritated and impressed. He throws his notebook down and goes to the bathroom to shower.

* * *

><p><strong>4:57 pm-<br>**

John and Sherlock walk side by side down the harsh florescent-lit corridors of St. Bartholomew's until they reach the morgue doors. Lestrade is leaning against the wall just before the entrance, arms crossed and looking half asleep. He jolts up as they approach.

"You're here," Sherlock says, his voice flat.

"And hello to you too," Lestrade responds, frowning. "I'm here to supervise. I can't even begin to emphasize how many rules we're breaking by this body transfer, Sherlock. Jobs could be lost if this comes out."

"Wouldn't be fun if it wasn't dangerous," Sherlock says, a bit too cheerfully. He sweeps past Lestrade and into the morgue. The door swings shut behind him, squeaking on its hinges. Lestrade throws a helpless glance at John.

The doctor shrugs, but he doesn't move to follow Sherlock. Instead, he joins Lestrade and leans against the wall.

The DI looks at the tiled floor. "Sherlock didn't make friends in Cambridge."

"That's an understatement."

Lestrade laughs weakly. "Yeah, no kidding. My colleague there is pissed beyond belief. Although the man's a wanker on the best of days." The corner of John's mouth twinges upwards.

The DI sighs. "The truth is, they're just scared. They have nothing and they know it. And then some bloody prat tipped off the press that you and Sherlock were there." Lestrade uncrosses his arms and looks over at John. "I know it wasn't you two," he continues. "But just so you know. It's bad. From here on in with this case, just contact me and I'll forward the information along the proper channels. We can't afford to have any more leaks or press attention."

John nods. He can hear Sherlock and Molly's muffled voices beyond the door.

Lestrade's forehead creases. "If don't mind me saying, you look…a bit off."

John purses his lips and looks out the hallway window. "I got this today. Picture of the victim. When she was alive, of course."

He pulls it out of his pocket and hands it to the other man. Lestrade takes in a breath.

"Christ."

"Yeah, I know."

"Has Sherlock seen this?"

"Not yet."

Lestrade exhales. "Something's all off about this whole thing." He gives the photo back to John.

"What do you mean?"

"Can't you feel it? Something's below the surface. Lurking. And we just can't see it."

John puts the picture back in his pocket. "Yeah, well, you know Sherlock. Probably has a list of nine things from one glance already."

Lestrade nods. "Let's hope so."

They enter the morgue together.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** My gratitude to all who have reviewed, faved or generally supported this story so far. It's nice to know I'm entertaining someone other than myself. I thrive on feedback (constructive crit included) and read everything, so feel free to comment. A lot of hours go into every chapter. Thanks!


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock doesn't bother to acknowledge Molly as he strides into the morgue's autopsy room. He swiftly navigates though the tables and body bags, checking every tag. The young medical examiner looks up from her gruesome work and bites her lip. She desperately tries to calm the pitter-patter of her heartbeat, to no avail.

His movements are snappy enough to almost be comical, but she admires Sherlock's single-minded devotion to his pursuit. The hunt. The game. Sherlock lives for it, and Molly wishes she understood what it's like to have such drive and passion for something. Or maybe she just wishes his eyes glittered that way for her.

"Ah, here we go." Sherlock pauses by one of the tables. He's talking to himself, but Molly doesn't realize it.

Her mouth drops open. "But I haven't—"

Ignoring her, Sherlock throws open the zipper and takes in the sight. The smell alone is enough to make his eyes begin to water. He blinks furiously so no one will notice and begins to breathe through his mouth.

Molly rushes over. Her long, mousy hair is pulled up in a bun that's now falling lop-sided. She's still holding a bone saw with one hand, but that's not what earns her a critical glance. Some dried-on reddish spray adorns her chin and cheek, the upper-half of her white lab coat, and parts of her preposterous yellow patterned blouse that even Mrs. Hudson wouldn't find fit for use as a dish rag.

On a whole, it's a repugnant combination of elements, and Sherlock resolves to notify her of the fact.

The medical examiner flashes him a tired smile and brushes a piece of hair from her face. She doesn't seem to be bothered by the smell, and inadvertently wipes more bodily fluids from her gloves onto her cheek.

"Sherlock, I haven't gotten to this one yet—"

"Go wash your face."

She looks strangely at him. "Wh—what?"

He stares hard at the murder victim before him. "And change too, preferably. Something that isn't so hard on the eyes this time, please."

Molly's lower lip quivers and she turns away. She puts down the bone saw on another table and disappears from the room.

_Alone at last. _

Sherlock takes the moment of solitude to continue his inspection. Brows knit; he leans over the corpse with his magnifying glass. Memorizing the details and filing them away for later use. When he hears footsteps behind him, he straightens.

Molly looks up at Sherlock. "I'm back," she says with forced brightness. He glances at her. His nostrils flare. Now she's wearing a home-spun wool sweater that has obviously been folded up and stored away for some time, judging by the wrinkles and accompanying tinge of moth balls in the air.

"That's not an improvement."

Her fragile smile vanishes.

"It's all I had with me." Molly turns away to put gloves on. _"Really, I'm surprised you even noticed,"_ she murmurs, clearly not realizing that Sherlock can still hear her. He looks up from the body and watches Molly longer this time, his face unreadable, and glances away only when she turns back toward him. Mechanically, she picks up the chart accompanying the body.

"Oh, yes. The Cambridge victim." Molly sighs. "They have people there for this sort of thing. Why was she sent here?"

"I needed the best," Sherlock replies.

Molly looks up. Apology or compliment or both, she's so shocked that nearly drops the clipboard.

"Oh… alright. Well, I'll get to this one in a bit. Awful time for Dr. Lovey to take a holiday. So unlike him. He knew we had a lot to do here."

The consulting detective doesn't tell her that he knows _exactly why_ Dr. Lovey stormed out and forced her to come in on her day off. _It had to be done, the incompetent fool_, Sherlock reasons. Even so, Molly's red-tinged eyes and the nearly constant furrow in her brow and downward arch of her mouth ignites something unpleasant in him. Sherlock places his hands behind his back. Lowers his voice carefully, like he's soothing a child.

"If you wouldn't mind, Miss Hooper, I need you to look at this one now." After a moment, "please."

"But I…" She stops. _That look_ in his eyes. She's knows it's fake. It has to be. Like when he compliments her hairstyle or notices her lipstick shade. She knows she's a foolish willing puppet on a string being manipulated by a master puppeteer. But for that single look, for the compassion and affection that she pretends is held within it, there's nothing she can do to resist him. Her heartbeat quickens again.

Molly gives the corpse the briefest of glances before being drawn back up into Sherlock's dark cerulean gaze. The intensity of his calculated burn; the cut of the pale, aristocratic features better suited for a Grecian marble bust than life; the tautness of his body in the silence and the fluidity of it in movement; he's a predator, and she's trembling before him. Completely exposed, against her better judgment. She's never allowed herself to stare so blatantly before. Sherlock wouldn't allow it. She senses that the curtain is pulled back, if only for her, and if only for those few precious seconds.

It's Sherlock who severs the loaded moment. He looks away, clears his throat and becomes…_Sherlock_ again. A coldness is restored to the room. She shivers and tries to focus on the corpse.

"Um, they mucked up the y-incision," she stammers, still disheveled. The medical examiner moves the corner of the body bag so she can see better.

"There was no y-incision done."

"What?" She glances back at the chart. "Says here the initial autopsy was performed already by a—" she squints to make out the signature, "—by Dr. M.S. Chortles. Here are the x-rays they sent." She puts them up on the wall and flips on the backlight. Grayscale impressions of the Cambridge victim appear, cold and lifeless.

After a moment, the medical examiner sets aside the paperwork and prods the blue-tinted flesh with her gloved fingers. Wrinkles appear in her forehead as she deftly palpates the torso.

"You're right," Molly concedes to Sherlock. "I've seen submission errors before, but not like this."

She becomes quiet. "So this is all the killer's work? He stabbed her to imitate an autopsy?"

"Yes, presumably."

She frowns. "Poor girl. She must be stabbed at least thirty times."

Sherlock looks at the ceiling and releases a breath. "Thirty-nine."

"Oh." She looks up at him, then back at the body. Crawls even deeper back into her shell.

Molly moves a bit around the table and accidently brushes against his shoulder. She doesn't notice, but Sherlock does. White against black. He moves a step back and allows Molly her space.

It's at this time that John and Lestrade enter the morgue. Despite Lestrade's occupation, Sherlock finds it amusing how the DI turns a bit green. Lestrade's never has been particularly comfortable around the dead.

"Molly, Sherlock," the DI acknowledges. She's lost in concentration and doesn't answer.

"So what have you found?" John asks conversationally, stepping to the other side of the table. It's not clear if he's addressing Molly or Sherlock. He's trying desperately to avoid looking Shauna's lifeless green eyes at half mast staring at the ceiling, but he's drawn back again and again.

John's rigid posture and hands held awkwardly at his side speaks for his military background…but there's something else. Sherlock's brow arches a fraction. _What is it?_ The former army captain looks an inordinately long time at the victim's face, as though memorizing every plane and line. He purposely avoids Sherlock's shrewd gaze.

"Um, well—"Molly begins.

"Killed by a single stab wound to the heart." Sherlock interrupts. Now that he has the floor, he places his hand behind his back and continues. "The other wounds were just for show. Indicative of some medical training or knowledge judging by the not-so-random pattern. The deepest wounds are on the left side, not angled in. On the right side, they're at a slant. The killer was left-handed then. The victim has single stabs wounds through both wrists, though doubtful this is of religious significance because her killer wanted her subdued so he could finish his work. He? Yes, a more statistical likelihood, not to mention the upper body strength it would take to subdue a 126—no, 130 lb. female over a bench top. No blows to the head visible, so she was probably conscious until death. _She knew her killer_."

Sherlock practically growls out the last phrase, and there is utter silence in the room. John blinks. "Ok."

Sherlock regards a Lestrade like he's expecting treat.

_Silence_.

"Must I spell it out?" Sherlock says exasperatedly, "get the boyfriend in for questioning." He glares at John. "_Real_ questioning, not just for tea. Find professors, classmates—any male who had significant contact with her."

Lestrade nods.

"Look for bite marks or some kind of wound on their hands," Molly says quietly. All three men turn and look at her. Molly shrinks under their direct gazes.

"What do you mean?" Lestrade prompts.

Molly points to the victim's mouth. "A girl like this took care of herself. But the skin is roughed up along the edges of her mouth, like she was gagged. There are fibers in her molars, so she fought or chewed through the material. There's blood and something resembling human flesh caught on the mandible lateral incisor and cuspid. Her killer may have used his hand to quiet her, if she was still alive by that point." She looks around. "I uh…I still need to run the DNA tests to confirm it though."

"Alright. Excellent," the DI says. "Let me know when the testing's complete—"

Sherlock snorts. "Why bother? Left-handed male in the victim's acquaintance with a medical background who may or may not have a bit hand. Should be quite recognizable, even by police standards."

"Procedure, Sherlock," Lestrade argues, deflecting the jab with grace. "Once we get the DNA, if it exists, we can move forward."

"Damn procedure!" Sherlock storms out of the autopsy room. Everyone in the room is silent for a moment.

Lestrade asks what they're all thinking. "What's his issue?"

John scratches his forehead and gives the medical examiner a reassuring half-smile he doesn't feel. "Molly, you did good work. Sherlock's just miffed that you noticed something that he didn't."

She matches his weak grin, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Well, I better finish up with this one."

They take their cue to exit and meet Sherlock in the hall. He's pacing.

"Why wait? Why? Our man is out there, Lestrade."

"Sherlock, let it be. I will put you in cuffs and keep you at the station if you're going to fight this." Even as he speaks, the DI sincerely hopes Sherlock doesn't call his bluff.

John steps in and grabs Sherlock by the arm, marching him out. "Not necessary. We're on our way back to the flat. Aren't we, Sherlock?"

Sherlock glowers like an impertinent child but doesn't resist John's firm handling.

"Let us know what happens," John calls back over his shoulder. Lestrade nods and shoves his hands in his pockets. Watches them leave.

"God help us," he says, too quietly for them to hear.

* * *

><p>John and Sherlock are sitting in a cab. John's tried conversing several times, only to get one word responses from his companion. He's had enough, and instructs the cabby to pull over.<p>

"Why are we stopping here?" Sherlock looks outside at the bustling London evening life.

"It's close to supper time and I'm hungry." _Actually, Angelo will give us a free meal and my wallet is a bit light lately, if you haven't noticed, Sherlock, curtsey of your notorious selectiveness with cases._

They get out and are settled quickly at a table in the Italian eatery. John doesn't bother to protest the candle that Angelo sets on the table. He hardly notices, in fact. Instead, his practiced physician gaze darts up now and again at Sherlock. The man is sitting so tense that John's sure if a single thread was cut, the whole of him would unravel.

Sherlock pushes aside the menu. "I'm not hungry."

"Yeah, well there's nothing but a bag of cadaver parts in the fridge at home so I hope you reconsider."

The comment draws a few horrified looks from the other nearby patrons, and John grimaces and tries to appear normal as the waiter brings out their water.

"Really, Sherlock. Get something," he urges quietly, leaning over.

"No."

The doctor sighs and glances up at the waiter. "We'll take the chicken parmesan."

The waiter stares hesitantly between the two diners. "Sharing tonight, sir?"

John's gaze could cause spontaneous combustion. "No. Two orders. Two plates. Thanks." The waiter nods and leaves them.

Sherlock's staring out the window. He's silent for a long time. John plays with the corner of his napkin and listens to the tacky operatic falsetto playing in the background.

"Why are we here, John?" Sherlock's still looking out the window.

"I already told you. I was hungry. And you should be." John takes a sip of water. Swallows. Wishes he had wine instead. Almost apologetically, he adds, "and I was wondering about last night."

Sherlock turns toward him. "What about it?"

"When Mycroft came. His news regarding your mother's vandalized grave. Most people would be upset."

"Oh, that." They could be discussing the weather for all the expression on Sherlock's face. In fact, if John had a guess, the consulting detective almost looks bored.

"Sherlock, I know most Vulcans have nothing on you, but this is just…" He's at a loss for words. "I guess I just wanted to let you know I'm here to listen. And help, if you need it."

Sherlock's gaze goes blank a moment, like he's lost deep inside himself. It's unnerving to watch. He surfaces seconds later.

"Thank you, John, but it's not a topic I'm inclined to discuss."

It's as clear a dismissal as he's ever received, but the doctor is reluctant to let the topic drop. His own mother passed when he was overseas. It's a raw subject for him. Harry has never let him forget it.

"Ok," John says. "So you'll disrespect your mother's memory at the expense of the silly feud you have with your brother."

That comment earns John a sharp glance. "Mycroft knows how to evoke a reaction. He doesn't need my help in the least."

"So stopping by, telling you all that…it's to delude you."

"Hardly. He amused me. He deluded you."

The waiter brings out their food, takes one look at John's reddening face and scurries away. John saws ruthlessly at his chicken with his knife.

"If that's the way you want to spin it, fine." He takes a bite. "I was just trying to be supportive."

Sherlock frowns at the steaming plate of chicken parmesan. "I'm not hungry."

John swallows his mouthful. "Alright, leave then."

He didn't really mean it, and his heart sinks a little when the consulting detective sweeps up his coat and scarf and exits the eatery. John doesn't bother looking after him. He sits alone with his meal. Thinks about Sherlock. Thinks about Shauna's picture in his pocket. Thinks about how much he hates sitting in restaurants by himself, and how he hates himself even more for admitting it.

His phone chirps. He takes it out and flips through the screens. It's a text from an unknown number. John reads.

**Lover's spat? How sad. :(**

John shoves the phone back in his coat pocket and swerves around to look out the picture window. Squints to find the nearest cameras or any suspicious person watching him. The pedestrian traffic seems perfectly normal outside, but he's an army doctor, not a member of MI-5 for Christ sakes, and he doesn't really know where to look.

His phone chirps again.

**I would join you, but you seem preoccupied. **

After another moment—

**How's the puppy working out? Picked it out myself.**

John can almost hear the sing-song voice of Moriarty through the impassive type. Or is it just his imagination? He takes a breath. His fingers fly across the keys.

_Who are you? _

He waits. Stares at his half-eaten dinner for an hour. The phone stays silent. John throws down the napkin and tosses a few quid on the table for tip. Rewards Angelo's kind smile with a stressed one.

He stands on the curb and hails a cab. Just as he is about to get in, the phone chirps. His heartbeat picks up, but true to form, he reads the message with a steady hand.

**I'll be watching, Dr. Watson.**


	7. Chapter 7

**5 weeks later—**

John's sitting in his favorite chair by the fireplace, his fingers perched over the laptop keyboard. He's not sure what to write. Well, actually he does, but he can't.

Since the Cambridge murder some weeks earlier, life had resumed to its abnormal, but quieter pace. Sherlock had taken on a few odd cases and solved them all with little effort or input from his flatmate. For his part, John was feeling a bit sluggish and out of sorts. He didn't like to think himself as a serial dater, but it was a nice excuse to get out of the flat, and aside from taking the puppy out on a few walks (much to Sherlock's annoyance), John felt more reclusive now than he had been in a long time.

The minor row he and Sherlock shared at Angelo's eatery had blown over by that night. Sherlock feigned no memory of the incident, or of Mycroft at all, it seemed, and John reluctantly kept up the pretense. Truth be told, he knew so little about Sherlock's background (despite living with the man for a year), that he wanted desperately to understand why family caused such a negative visceral reaction. It was none of his business, really, but still…it seemed like an important puzzle piece to fathoming Sherlock.

With a sigh, John closes the laptop and sets it on the side table. Pinches the top of his nose with his fingers. He hasn't felt so useless, so alone since…God, since before he met Sherlock.

The Cambridge case is at a stalemate, and John feels sick inside over it. Not that it's the first or only case the Sherlock couldn't solve with his usual brusque cleverness, but this one seems so much more vivid for John. He pulls Shauna's picture out of his pocket. _Damn him for still carrying it around._ Makes the unsolved nature of her death that much harder to bear. But those green eyes. His jaw clenches. _So similar… Jesus, it haunts him._ His left hand starts to tremor.

Molly's DNA work had come up inconclusive. She'd sent the samples onto another lab, and they were awaiting the results. As it was, it seemed like the vicious slaying was just that. Lestrade reported that the voluntary interviews with potential suspects had gone well, and while some individuals had minimal medical experience, everyone had a solid alibi. No leads. No case. No justice.

Mrs. Hudson's clamoring in the kitchen behind him and John quickly shoves the picture back in his pocket. Folds his hands together and squares his shoulders for none but the skull to witness.

"Making tea?" he says.

"Not your housekeeper," she responds without missing a beat. John allows a fleeting smile. Despite her oft-repeated mantra, he can hear the water boiling and the soft clink of china being brought down from the cupboard.

His phone rings. He checks the caller ID. _Mycroft. _Damn.

"Hello?"

Never one for perfunctory small talk, Mycroft sneers through the receiver, "you're not leaving the flat."

"How observant." John lowers his voice, mindful of Mrs. Hudson. "It appears you'll have to get in touch with me like a normal human being now."

He can almost feel Mycroft's frown.

"I would prefer to meet in person."

John mouth flattens. And then,

"A car will be waiting for you." The line goes dead.

John gets up and looks out the window. Sure enough, there is a bored looking brunette leaning against the black Jaguar parked in front of 221B.

_Mycroft, you bastard_. John's not sure to whom to be more irate with—Mycroft, for assuming that John's schedule is entirely at his whim, or himself for having such a pathetically open schedule with only Mycroft to jar it.

"Hold off on the tea, Mrs. Hudson," the doctor says, grabbing his coat. "I'll be back."

* * *

><p><strong>20 minutes later <strong>—

John's standing jadedly at yet another abandoned factory. He hates the elder Holmes standing there before him as he fingers the wooden handle of his constant accessory umbrella, smug and polished and unruffled despite their oily, decaying surroundings.

The conversation goes as it has many times before—Mycroft showing a muted interest in his little brother's whereabouts and activities all while supplying the few digs that reveal what a strained and dysfunctional relationship the two really share. It's repetitive and giving the doctor a headache. In the background, he can hear Mycroft droning on and on. John regrets not having stayed for tea with Mrs. Hudson.

And then then catches, "_Mother would be most disappointed_."

He's shaken from his reverie, and gazes sharply at Mycroft.

"Yeah, about your mother. What happened with that?"

"With what?"

John frowns. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. Your visit weeks back. Informed Sherlock of the vandalized grave site of your mother."

"Ah. That. Sherlock hasn't mentioned anything?"

John's frown grows deeper. "Of course not. But you know that already."

Mycroft smiles thinly. "Well, it is his burden to bear now. His indifference is lamentable, however."

John crosses his arms. He won't defend Sherlock in this instance—but at the same time, the blame cannot be laid on one sibling alone.

"Not that either of you two seems too broken up," John says, "but I thought I would offer to help, if you needed it."

Mycroft opens his mouth, and then shuts it. "The gesture is appreciated, Dr. Watson, but Sherlock is the one who needs to come forward during this—_distressing_—time."

"Right. Yeah. Well he's not here. I am."

Mycroft's eyes narrow. For a brief second, he looks caught off guard, and John decides to press forward.

"So was it just the headstone that was vandalized?"

The smug countenance returns. "No. The headstone's perfectly sound."

"But you said—"

"I said nothing. Sherlock inferred. Incorrectly, I might add."

"So what happened, if you don't mind me asking?"

"The grave site was disturbed."

"Like the dirt was shifted about?"

"Precisely."

"Like by an animal?"

"Possibly."

"And one of the cemetery people called you on this?"

"Not at all."

"Then—"

Mycroft's sigh cuts him off. "How Sherlock puts up with this, I'll never know." The elder Holmes glares hard at John. "The grave is on the ancestral property, some distance from the cottage, I might add." He leans against the umbrella like it was a post. John can't help his baffled expression. Sherlock has never mentioned any other property. Why would he, though? John starts to wonder if he really knows anything about his flatmate.

"The groundskeeper notified me," Mycroft continues. "I notified Sherlock. That's all."

"Yeah, well he's not too concerned. Thinks you're lying, actually."

The older man shrugs. "He's wrong."

He grins again, and it sends a shiver right down John's spine. "You can come see it yourself, if you want. Poor Mother, rest her soul, would be most flattered."

There's something in Mycroft's slimy tone that makes the doctor want to escape. _Quickly._ He can't explain it, but this whole thing feels like a grievous invasion of Sherlock's personal life. A heavily fortified part that he was never meant to witness. Mycroft knows the delicious bait he's dangling before John_. Bloody hell_.

Curiosity wins out. John clears his throat and raises his chin a notch. "So where's 'the cottage?'"

Mycroft smiles.

* * *

><p>"My God," John whispers as he steps from the cab. He was not nearly so impressed when he arrived at Buckingham Palace as he is now. 'The cottage' is one of the most expansive manor homes he has ever seen. Perhaps only a slightly smaller cousin to Chatsworth, the house sprawls on either side of him, unapologetically ostentatious. Admiring the clear homage to Baroque architectural influences, John walks up the cobblestone drive. Large marble steps stretch before him. Feeling quite small and ridiculous, he stops before the massive front door. What is he supposed to do? Knock?<p>

Unbelievably, the door swings open and the wrinkled guise of an elderly woman in a black dress steps out. "You are Dr. Watson, I presume," she says tersely and with full confidence.

"Uh, yes, call me John." John flashes a smile he doesn't feel and extends his hand. She doesn't take it. Her eyes narrow on him, and she turns and motions to the large open door.

"Dr. Watson, if you will follow me. I believe Master Mycroft wanted you to have a brief tour. Keep in mind this is a most unusual occurrence. The estate is not open to the public."

'_Master Mycroft'_? John has to muffle his laugh. _Good grief, the man would insist on such a stuffy, antiquated title._ The woman (housekeeper, he assumes), seems to spare no time for his amusement and even less for visitors, so he obediently follows her rapid pace until they are inside the foyer. She allows him to stand and gape, though she checks her watch several times.

Perhaps an only slightly lesser artist than Michelangelo painted the thirty foot ceilings in a colorful mosaic of Greek heroes. One either side of him stand cherry tables worth more than his whole military pension, and above them, matching gilded mirrors. _Vanity._ The room reflects its own opulence. He can understand why Mycroft would like such a place. Yet like the man, for all the manor's grandeur, there is a pervasive darker edge in the atmosphere. It doesn't seem to be a place of happy memories.

John's under the close scrutiny of the housekeeper, and he forces his mouth closed. "Really nice," he says lamely. He receives the housekeeper's irritated gaze again before she continues up one side of the grand staircase. This 'brief tour' lasts another hour, and John has no doubt that she really is leaving out most of the rooms and parlors hidden behind impassive closed doors as they navigate the various halls.

"Sherlock lived here?" John asks abruptly. The housekeeper stops and considers the question. After a long moment, she bobs her head. "Yes, for a time. Until he was sent to boarding school."

"He hasn't been back since?"

There is a hitch in her step. Some internal conflict flashed across the old woman's face before she recovers. "No, not once."

"I see."

She leads him through a stunning greenhouse at the rear of the house and pushes open the steamed-up glass door. He steps through, expecting her to follow.

"Henry will see you to the grave. Goodbye, Dr. Watson."

She slams the door closed before he has a chance to respond. John hears the lock snap into place.

_Ok. Well, then. _

While the house is the main focal point when coming up the drive, now he has full appreciation of the gardens behind it. It's impeccably maintained English landscaping with a large fountain a few hundred meters away, and to his far right, an ivy-covered stone stable. All picturesque. All too perfect. And so unlike Sherlock. The man who solves cases wearing his bed sheets and tinkers with bits of glassware over a shabby kitchen table came from this place? The notion still boggles John's mind.

Behind him, someone clears his throat.

The doctor turns quickly, finding an elderly man in a tweet coat, worn wool pants and rubber boots eyeing him cautiously.

"Hi. Hell of a house, that," John says good-naturedly, motioning back toward the manor. The man growls something and walks away in the direction of the stable. John follows behind half-heartedly.

"So you're Henry?" he asks.

Another grunt.

"And we're headed to the grave site?"

Henry looks sideways at him and continues onward. They stop at the stables. The old man grumbles something akin to "wait 'ere," and hobbles inside. Standing around like a fool, John desperately hopes the man is about to drive a sparkling Range Rover through the open stable doors. His hopes are dashed when the man leads out a magnificent chestnut hunter-jumper, fully tacked and awaiting a rider.

"Oh, I don't ride," John says, and he means it. He prefers his own two feet on the ground, or in a car. Hell, he never even rode the ponies at friend's birthday parties when he was little. As if sensing his line of thought, the horse throws its elegant hand and paws the ground.

Henry frowns.

"Look, I'm sorry you went to all the trouble, I would just rather walk. If that would be ok."

They stare at each other another moment before the old man shrugs. He turns the great horse around and heads back into the stable.

"Wait!" John calls.

The man stops and looks at him.

"Which direction do I go in?"

The man purses his lips and points.

"Uh, thank you!" John calls back, but the grizzled man is already gone from sight.

Squaring his shoulders, John walks on.

* * *

><p><strong>3 hours later-<strong>

John understands now why Henry was giving him a horse to ride. His legs are so stiff that he is not sure he can make the journey back. The well-maintained bushes and gardens of the estate have long since transformed into untamed English wilderness. Thorn bushes, hedges and the occasional band of wayward sheep entangle his path, and he is quite certain now that he is hopelessly lost. He has not seen any grave, much less a church.

The sun has dipped below the horizon, and the chill of the English spring seeps into his bones. The doctor is woefully unprepared. No water, no flashlight, no food. He pulls out his phone. _Fuck._ The battery's dead.

An adventure gone horribly wrong, he almost wonders if it's Karma. After all, Sherlock didn't want him involved. He went behind his friend's back and decided to investigate anyway. In fact, everything about this place is something Sherlock never wanted him to know. His guilt is bristled with irritation, however. It makes the need for a flatmate seem even more absurd. Sherlock's taste for clothes might run on the expensive side, but residing in a dingy flat with a burned out army-doctor made no sense when he had a home that would make Mr. Darcy green with envy.

John hits a tree root with his right foot and topples over. Lands hard. He hears a tell-tale snap and the sharp influx of pain running up his leg. He doesn't need to be a doctor to know that his ankle's broken. He swears under his breath again. _God, it hurts. _

He flips over so he can rest on his back. The process nearly causes him to black out. So John sits, alone in the dark. He feels around him, and touches the rough bark of a tree. He pushes himself back a bit more and rests against the trunk.

It's quiet now, save for the wind moving through the tree branches and the occasional distant mew of a sheep. He can move, and it's getting so very cold. John closes his eyes. Someone will find him. He just has to wait.

Hours pass. John's in a restless sleep. His ankle throbs, he's so cold he almost can't feel anything anymore, but then he hears something. There. Next to him. And then a sharp jab in his leg. Everything hurts less. He sinks back down into oblivion.

When he comes to, his filthy arse is laying on a priceless 18th century chaise before a roaring fire. His right pants leg is rolled up to his knee, and his ankle has a splint on it.

And he's under the scrutiny of two—no three—very cross gazes.

_Bloody hell._

* * *

><p>"You idiot."<p>

There are few things worse that John can imagine than waking up to Mycroft Holmes, especially a cross Mycroft Holmes. John blinks and wishes desperately he could feign oblivion.

"I got lost," he says, trying to recover some dignity.

He hears the housekeeper cluck her tongue. "Henry says the fool of a man wouldn't take the horse and tried to cross the moor on foot."

At length, Mycroft alone seems to remember a shred of civility and offers John a smile. "Forgive the harsh words, Dr. Watson, but you gave us quite a scare. Dr. Brant here says that your ankle is broken. I'm impressed that you made it back with such an impediment."

John frowns. "I…I didn't make it back."

"You did, sir," the housekeeper interrupts. "I found you by the rear door and called the doctor straight away. Cold as death, you were."

"But I—"

"You have a quite bit of painkillers running through your system," a gray-bearded man says, stepping next to the chaise. Dr. Brant, John presumes. "It might make your memory a bit foggy," the old doctor continues.

"Right. Ok." John doesn't believe it for a minute, but he won't argue. He's tired.

* * *

><p>When John wakes up again, he's lying on the sofa in 221B with an old coverlet over him. A hot-pink cast engulfs his right foot up to his calf. <em>Christ, who chose that bloody color?<em>

"Oh, you're awake."

Sherlock's deep voice jars the fog in his mind, and John groans. "Yes."

Sherlock gives him a barbed smile, but John knows there is affection held within it. The consulting detective looks groomed as always in his tailored suit and black dress shirt, but there is something slightly amiss about him. John can't quite put his finger on it.

"Unfortunate accident?" the detective continues, nodded toward the cast.

"Very." John doesn't want to talk about it, and says as much. The rising guilt of visiting the manor and invading Sherlock's past throbs worse than the ache in his leg.

For his part, Sherlock seems indifferent. He places his hands behind his back and paces the room.

"Can you be up by tonight? I may need you."

"No. Well, I don't know. Maybe. But I can't walk, Sherlock."

"Which is why I took the precaution of bringing out your old friend."

John's brows knit for a moment until he follows Sherlock's gaze. His cane is lying casually against the sofa arm, awaiting use again.

John leans back against the pillows, a wry grin crossing his face. "How thoughtful."

Sherlock regards him with bright blue eyes. "Yes, I thought so, too."

John slips into another restless painkiller-induced sleep, and Sherlock gives the man one last look before turning to the hallway. Mrs. Hudson had a fit upon discovering the muddy riding boots dumped at the top of the stairs. Sherlock grabs them and throws one last concerned glance at the sleeping doctor. With the barest of smiles, he hides the boots back in his room. John has his secrets. _So does he_.


	8. Chapter 8

**3 weeks later- **

**Sorry about the ankle. Bad luck.**

John grimaces at the phone and nearly throws it at the wall. He hates these text messages. And hates the 'anonymous' sender even more.

"Who's that?"

Molly Hooper gives him a weak smile. John is pleased to see a (friendly) familiar face. Lestrade stopped by a few days earlier to wish him well, but the conversation quickly took a bizarre turn to chastisement over recreational drug use. (More specifically, recent hospital lab records that the DI played a role in making "go away" for John's sake). Despite John's assurances of taking only prescribed painkillers, he didn't miss the forced tolerance in the DI's discerning eyes. Thus ended his last visit, until Molly, of course—and left him filled with questions, frustrations and irregularities that he had neither the ability nor energy to address.

John's existence has been shaken to much more elemental levels since his injury. Eat. Sleep. Shower occasionally. Wish Sherlock would stop playing his bloody violin. Yell when the pistol makes an appearance, lest he get his head shot off, etc. But mostly, the doctor has endured solitude intermixed with Mrs. Hudson coming to fuss over the positions of the pillows under his foot or whether he has taken his medication or not.

The young medical examiner repeats her question, brow raised. John shoves the phone back into pocket, shaken back into the present.

"Uh, no one. Harry," he lies. He won't come clean about Moriarty's texts to Molly of all people. She nods and takes another sip of her tea.

"So your ankle's feeling better?" she says, forcing brightness back into her voice.

John shrugs. "Good days and bad days. I get by. Have to use this bloody thing again, though." He taps the cane propped up against the coffee table.

"Yes, well, that's alright. You're used to it at least." She doesn't seem to recognize the indiscretion of the comment, innocent as it was.

"Hmmm." John looks away when his former limp is brought up. Psychosomatic, indeed. At least he won't need that useless therapist for this time around. Unless to vent his frustrations regarding his present flatmate. No, not even then.

John lies back on the sofa and holds in a sigh. He's sick of talking about his ankle, and even more exasperated lying here useless and terribly bored. Crap telly is pleasantly numbing, but only for so long. Molly doesn't look very entertained either, despite his best efforts.

"Sherlock's out?" she asks.

John nods. "Uh, yeah, I guess he is." Sherlock had been gone a lot lately. Whether to further his bribery with the homeless network or out solving cases on his own, (he has consulted very little with John in the last few weeks), and it wears on the doctor. There is a distance between them now. Unspoken, but there.

At his admittance of Sherlock's whereabouts, Molly wilts before his eyes. John hates the dejected look on her face and the sag of her shoulders. In her own way, she's too pretty, too kind, and too lonely and exposed for a man as aloof and detached as Sherlock. John wishes he could tell her that her affection is as pointless with Sherlock as it was with Moriarty. He wishes he could ease the unrequited nature of her adoration. He is a medical doctor, after all. He doesn't like to see suffering of any kind, especially in the people he cares about.

"You know," he says, "you should get out more." _Shit_, that's not what he wanted to say, or how he wanted to say it. He intended some sage advice that she should live her life and Sherlock and dead people weren't the best of company, but it all came out wrong.

Molly gives him a strange look. "But that's why I'm here," she defends weakly. "To see you. After all, we are friends."

_You're not here for me, Molly, and we both know it. You're here nursing a broken heart. You're here nursing an addiction and I hate watching you suffer. _

She looks at her feet. "Maybe you're right. Truth is, I just don't…trust…many people these days. Since Jim…I'm not sure I can even trust myself."

It's a painful admission, and John takes it in quietly. In their own ways, they're both hurting from rejection.

At length, he says, "you're a good person to have around, Molly."

She offers him the barest of smiles and plays with the handle on her teacup. "You're just saying that because you're nice."

"Yeah, well there is that."

They both share a quiet laugh. Then John just says it.

"_What about me?"_

That comes out wrong too. In fact, he's surprised and horrified the words even came out his mouth. Blame the painkillers. A proposition is not what he had in mind for Molly Hooper. Sure, she's pretty and wears her wallflower persona as well as any shy girl he's met. He even finds her poor conversation skills and uneasy humor endearing. A sort of opposite side of the spectrum from Sherlock. Still…it's Molly. And John is in a deep hole now.

Molly's head cocks just slightly to the side. "What?"

John blinks. _You prat, can't back out now_. He licks his lips unconsciously. Tries to maintain eye contact.

"Uh, would you consider going out with me? Sometime. For a bite to eat. If you want."

Molly sets the teacup down on the table and has trouble meeting his earnest gaze. "You're just saying that."

"No, I mean it. We get on well enough. And it might do us both some good."

"Ok. Yeah. I'd like that. When you're able, of course."

That sad look never quite leaves her eyes, but for a change, Molly Hooper looks hopeful about something other than Sherlock. For his part, John is relieved that he can meet someone outside of the flat decidedly prettier than Mycroft.

Molly makes an excuse to go, and John eases himself off the sofa to show her out, despite her protests. They both nearly collide into Sherlock as he catapults up the stairs.

"Hello..." John mutters, leaning heavily on his cane. Sherlock ignores him as he tears his scarf off and throws it on the table. He leaps into the armchair, legs pulled up against his chest. His fingers tap chaotic rhythms on the armrests.

Molly bites her lip and leans over to wave at him. "Nice to see you, Sherlock."

He gaze briefly darts in their direction before he's lost again in the turmoil of his mind. Molly shrugs it off the best she can and goes down a few steps. After a moment, she turns and looks back up at John.

"Oh, I almost forgot. Let him know that the DNA results came back."

John's brow rises. "From the Cambridge case?"

"Yes." Molly lowers her voice. "It wasn't the victim's DNA. In fact, it doesn't match anyone."

"So there's nothing in the database? A first time offender, you're saying."

Molly nods. "Or the first time he made a mistake."

"He?"

"Yes, male."

"That is interesting news. Thank you, Molly."

John watches her exit the flat before he hobbles painfully back into the sitting room. He glares at the consulting detective.

"That was rude, Sherlock."

An icy blue gaze settles on him.

"Hmmm? What?"

"She said hello. You ignored her."

"It was Molly. So what?"

"Yes, but…" _But she's hopelessly in love with you, Sherlock. Why must you patronize her?_

Sherlock's eyes narrow. "But what?"

John shakes his head. "Nothing." He collapses on the sofa again and picks up a newspaper. "Ah, look at this. Jewelry shop robbed."

"Boring."

John reads another headline. "Missing Arabic prince."

"Call Mycroft."

The doctor sighs and lays the paper down on his lap. "So what have you been up to, then?"

Sherlock looks at him and shrugs. He stares back into the kitchen and the room becomes deathly silent again. Defeated, John begins resumes reading.

Suddenly, "Molly spoke something to you on the stairs. What was it?"

John puts the paper down again and glances up. "Oh yeah. The DNA results don't have a match in the system. I'm referring to the Cambridge case, of course."

"I know what case!" Sherlock snaps.

John's forehead creases. His flatmate is notoriously mercurial, but today seems worse than normal.

"What do you plan to do, then?" the doctor asks, keeping his tone even.

Sherlock doesn't answer him, so John returns to his reading.

* * *

><p>It's night. Sherlock is in his bedroom, pacing across the floor. Papers are littered everywhere, in sharp contrast to the pristine condition in which he, (and Mrs. Hudson, on occasion), normally maintains the room. He runs a hand through his mess of dark hair before the pacing starts again. For a man who finds presentation critical, he is remarkably disheveled at the moment. He's still wearing his typical dress pants and shirt, but the latter is unbuttoned to the chest and the tails no longer tucked in at the waist. The coat has been long since abandoned on the bed, amid the documents.<p>

He releases a frustrated groan and stops in the middle of the room, eyes closed and fingers resting at his temples. Frozen. Thinking. Desperately reasoning. But it's like a fog that won't go away. No amount of nicotine patches and recreational drugs can help him sort through this problem. Like a train hurtling out of control, his pushes through the images in his mind. Some have to do with the daunting case at hand. Most do not.

John. _Damn him_. It was inevitable, Sherlock supposes, that his flatmate would question his past. Frankly, he gives John credit for putting up with his behaviors as long as he has—most others Sherlock has effectively driven away. John is different. He wants purpose. He wants to help. It keeps him tied to the detective, even at great personal cost. It's these moments of torment (weakness) that Sherlock is reminded (reluctantly) of his humanity. Guilt is a cruel master.

Sherlock's thoughts drift to the scattered papers surrounding him. They're the random collection of notes and files from the Cambridge case, and there's nothing in it—nothing—that moves him any closer to discerning a culprit, let alone a motive. It's infuriating for a man who handles frustration very poorly, as the bullet-hole ridden flat walls can contend.

But there's more to it than that. Lestrade never asks for much. In fact, his constant submission and humiliation on the part of Sherlock's greater investigational skills provides Sherlock a constant reward, a drug in and of itself that he desperately craves. It's an acceptance of his brilliance, and a hunger for further displays of it.

And Lestrade is not alone. For his strict rationality and masochism, John's almost as bad as the fans. It's the anticipation in John's eyes; the hope that Sherlock has caught the scent and is ten steps ahead of everyone else. For many cases—most cases, actually—that's true. It's Sherlock's claim to fame, as the papers so frequent state.

But this is different. His intellect is on the line. Perhaps more. There are eerie similarities between this girl and his past, and he can't sort out the details with any sense of clarity. There was no reason for her to die. Professional jealousy? Why bother? She was only a student after all. Angry lover? Lestrade insists the boyfriend is guiltless and John confirms the sentiment. Dead ends.

Blue eyes snap open. The room is dark, save for a lamp on the nightstand. Sherlock pushes the remaining papers from the bed onto the floor in a bout of juvenile anger. The nature to destroy, hurt, and punish he understands all too well. He has witnessed it over and over again. But there are varying degrees of the nature. Sherlock keeps a tight rein on it. Most killers don't.

He feels unclean. Sullied by the filth he can't remove and can't see past.

Sherlock begins to undress. Slowly peels away the shirt, then his pants. Walks into the bathroom and tries desperately to ignore the mirror's reflection. Almost succeeds, until, in his periphery, he catches a glimpse of the line of nicotine patches along both arms. In disgust, he tears them all off with a wince. They were making him nauseous anyway.

Sherlock turns on the shower and steps inside. Breathes in the steam. Hot water cascades down his pale naked flesh, which is already reddening from the heat. He's happily lost in the water. It's a loud cascade around his senses, deadening him to his thoughts and the world. It nearly hides the truth which has become so obvious. Sherlock feels himself teetering on the edge. John will learn more about him, and there is little he can do to prevent it. The case remains unsolved. He is a failure. He can't find the link. They are all counting on him. Waiting. Hoping. He hates those pitiful looks. Damn them all! Dull, unthinking creatures.

And perhaps more unsettling of all—there's someone out there who's outsmarted him. Who knows his mind and is playing a horrific little game.

Sometime later, his heart racing, Sherlock turns off the shower. He goes to the opposite side and slides down against the slick tile. Sits almost like a child would, knees pulled up and head resting in his folded arms. His dark mop of hair has straightened from the water, and he brushes it out of his eyes. It will dry soon enough. But for now, Sherlock doesn't care.

He would care if he knew that he was being watched. The camera is well placed—very well placed, so there's no shame that even someone as astute as Sherlock does not suspect it. Far away, the viewer sits and watches, leaning forward, hungry for every second as it unfolds on the monitor. The viewer is very good at discerning human behavior—on par with the prized quarry on screen now. And to see Sherlock so vulnerable—his beautiful, taut form glistening with drips of water—puts the viewer over the blissful edge of release. Utters a small cry, and then slowly recovers. All the while, the viewer never stops watching.

In a breathless voice, comes the whisper, "_Sherlock, you're mine_."


End file.
